Charles  Neville  Buck 


THE   BATTLE   CRY 


The   mountaineer's   steady  appraising   gaze   was   still   fixed  on   her    face, 
seeming  to  penetrate  her  thoughts. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 


By 
CHARLES  NEVILLE  BUCK 

Author  of 
«The  Call  of  the  Cumber  lands,"  etc. 

Illustrations  by 
DOUGLAS   DUER 


NEW  YORK 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


COPYRIGHT  1914  BY 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 


Other  novels  by 
Charles    Neville    Buck 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS 
THE  KEY  TO  YESTERDAY 
THE  LIGHTED  MATCH 
THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 


TO 
MY  MOTHER 

WHOSE   HIGH   NOBILITY   AND   GRACIOUS 

SWEETNESS  HAVE  BEEN  MY  LIFELONG 

INSPIRATION  AND  REWARD,  THIS 

BOOK  IS  LOVINGLY 

DEDICATED 


2126072 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 


CHAPTER  I 

AT  that  particular  moment  Juanita  Holland  could 
feel  nothing  but  pride  and  love  for  the  young 
man  whose  figure  mingled  with  the  other  seven 
in  a  picture  of  spirited  color.     Against  the  verdant  back- 
ground of  the  polo  field  there  were  eight,  but  all  save 
one  seemed  negligible. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  sloping  in  amber  drifts  across 
the  space  where  the  ponies  kicked  up  the  turf  and  the 
silks  of  the  team  colors  snapped  like  pennants  about  the 
straining  shoulders  of  the  players.  It  caught  and 
edged  the  new  springtime  greenery  with  a  margin  of 
soft  yellow.  It  flashed  brightly  upon  pongee  helmets 
and  blue  silk  caps  and  splashed  against  the  reeking 
flanks  of  the  ponies.  Of  the  hats  and  gowns  along 
the  white  flagstoned  terrace  of  the  Bryn  Mawr  club- 
house, it  made  a  great  bouquet  of  nodding  flowers,  a 
bouquet  which  it  caressed. 

Juanita  Holland  sat  near  the  front  and  as  some  of 
the  other  girls  smiled  knowingly  at  her  parted  lips  and 
fixed  eyes,  their  glances  traveled  to  an  engagement 
ring  and  the  fashion  in  which  the  slender  hand  it 
adorned  clenched  itself  in  the  tensity  of  her  interest. 

The  board  announced  a  score  of  four  to  three  and  a 

1 


«  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

quarter  in  favor  of  the  Reds  and  the  man  whom  her  eyes 
followed  played  Number  Two  for  the  Blues.  In  the 
fraction  of  another  minute  the  referee's  whistle  would 
end  the  last  period  and  the  game  would  be  over.  So 
when,  from  a  tangled  scrimmage  and  a  stamping  con- 
fusion in  midfield,  the  girl  saw  the  comet-like  outshoot 
of  a  willow  ball  followed,  close  as  a  shadow  follows,  by 
the  shapes  of  a  pony  and  a  man  she  knew,  it  is  not  won- 
derful that  her  blue  eyes  flashed  into  sparkle  and  the 
tender  curves  of  her  lips  tightened,  then  parted. 

There  was  now  a  chance;  a  small,  remote  embryo  of 
a  chance  for  turning  defeat  into  victory  just  on  the 
fringe  of  the  combat — with  a  truly  driven  goal. 

Juanita  Holland  herself  knew  the  feel  of  a  polo  mal- 
let and  the  intricacies  of  the  game,  and  she  knew  that 
such  a  reversal  of  the  issue  could  come  only  from  a 
jockey's  judgment  of  pace  and  a  blacksmith's  power  of 
hitting. 

The  blossoming  hats  nodded  like  an  old-fashioned 
garden  stirred  in  a  sudden  breeze.  The  men  broke  off 
talk  with  words  half  finished.  The  white  ball  had  risen 
and  soared  like  a  wingless  bird  and  had  come  to  earth 
rolling  onward  in  a  true  line  toward  the  goal  posts. 
Seven  ponies  wheeled,  scampering,  and  dashed  with 
eight  mallets  held  forward  and  upstretched  above  their 
necks,  but  a  few  yards  in  their  lead  raced  a  blood-bay 
mare  with  her  forelegs  tucked  under  her  safe  from  the 
mallet's  play.  Across  the  field  one  could  make  out 
the  red  spot  of  an  eagerly  distended  nostril  and  the 
strain  of  satin-coated  muscles.  Bending  forward  from 
her  saddle  with  his  eye  fixed  on  the  traveling  ball,  rode 
Roger  Malcolm,  menaced  a  length  behind  by  the  Red 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  8 

Number  Three,  who  was  driving  his  mount  to  its  last 
ounce  of  stamina.  There,  too,  cutting  out  at  an  angle 
to  meet  them,  came  the  Red  goal  guardian  making  a 
heroic  effort  to  get  up  and  slash  the  ball  back  out  of 
peril.  It  was  one  of  those  tense,  hard-breathing, 
leather-creaking  moments  when  the  issue  hangs  on  a 
split-hair  balance  of  steady  nerve  and  lightning  speed. 
Then  as  the  Red  Number  Three  brought  his  pony's 
muzzle  to  the  blood  bay's  rump,  the  Red  goal  guardian 
slashed  viciously  at  the  willow  sphere — and  passed  by 
with  a  misjudged  stroke.  A  cry  went  up  from  the 
gallery  and  again  the  sharp,  clear  impact  of  mallet  on 
ball  snapped  across  the  field  like  the  crack  of  a  mule- 
whip  and  again  the  ball  rose  and  soared — this  time 
cleanly  between  the  goal  posts.  As  the  man  who  had 
saved  the  day  for  the  Blues  wheeled  his  pony  and 
started  to  canter  back  to  the  center  of  the  field,  the 
final  whistle  shrilled  the  finish. 

"  One  of  Roger  Malcolm's  miracles,"  commented  a 
Red  sympathizer  with  a  shrug.  "  Four  and  a  quarter, 
to  four ;  but  I'm  bound  to  say  they  won  it  neatly.  The 
man's  a  wiz." 

Leisurely  the  crowd  began  drifting  from  its  center 
toward  club-house  and  parked  vehicles,  but  as  Juanita 
Holland's  glance  fell  on  the  diamond  she  wore  her  eyes 
abruptly  lost  their  trance-like  eagerness  and  deepened 
into  involuntary  betrayal  of  pain,  as  of  one  who  is 
awakened  from  a  pleasant  dream  to  unwelcome  reality. 

"  He  was  at  his  best  then,"  she  said  to  herself  with- 
out words.  "  He  is  always  at  his  best  —  when  he 
plays." 

She    stood   idly    waiting   for    him   while    the    crowd 


4  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

thinned,  and  her  face  still  wore  a  troubled  abstraction. 
She  saw  him  dismount  and  turn  his  pony  over  to  a 
groom.  She  watched  him  shouldering  his  way  toward 
her,  impatient  even  of  the  delays  caused  by  those  who 
insisted  on  handshakes  of  congratulation.  Though  she 
was  much  younger  than  he,  the  curve  of  her  lips  shaped 
a  faint  smile  of  indulgence,  such  as  one  may  wear  for  an 
eager  child,  as  she  read  the  boyish  glow  of  his  eyes  and 
realized  how  much  all  this  meant  to  him. 

He  was  a  clean,  fine  type  —  if  all  a  man  need  be  is 
honest,  courteous  and  accomplished.  He  was  strong 
and  played  his  games  with  reckless  abandon,  if  the 
strength  of  courage  can  exist  in  a  soul  that  demands 
nothing  more  than  the  playing  of  games.  He  had  al- 
ways been  deferentially  anxious  to  do  whatever  she 
had  asked  of  him  —  except  to  grow  up.  Of  these  things 
she  thought  as  he  made  his  way  to  her  side. 

"  Dearest,"  he  whispered,  "  will  you  wait  for  me 
while  I  change  and  let  me  drive  you  home  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  realizing  that  she  alone  had 
not  congratulated  him,  forced  a  radiant  graciousness 
into  her  smile. 

"  It  was  splendid,  Roger,"  she  declared  with  an  echo 
of  transitory  enthusiasm  in  her  eyes,  which  lighted 
them  like  violets  in  the  sun.  "  I  don't  believe  any  one 
else  could  have  done  it." 

The  young  man's  face  glowed  though  he  responded 
with  self-deprecation. 

"  We  all  have  our  lucky  moments.  It  was  pretty 
much  of  an  accident." 

"  In  polo  — "  the  thrill  for  a  moment  died  in  the  girl's 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  5 

voice  — "  one  mus/t  make  the  lucky  moment.  You  do  it 
uncommonly  well  —  in  polo." 

He  caught  the  separate  emphasis  of  her  last  two 
words  and  his  brows  contracted  in  an  expression  of 
sudden  pain.  "  Meaning,"  he  inquired  quietly, 
"  that  I  do  only  the  trivial  things  well?  I  cite  you 
the  Biblical  injunction,  dear.  '  What  thy  hand 
findeth  to  do—'" 

"  One's  hand  might  hunt  for  things  to  do,  but  I'm 
not  going  to  lecture  you  now.  I'm  saving  that  for 
this  evening." 

"  Meanwhile  may  I  drive  you  home?  " 

"  Not  to-day,  Roger.  I  want  to  think  and  so  I'm 
going  to  walk,  but  you  can  come  over  to  dinner.  There 
won't  be  any  one  else,  the  evening  will  be  devoted  to  — " 
she  paused,  then  added  — "  to  your  lecture." 

The  man  smiled  and  made  an  impulsive  movement  to 
reach  for  her  hand,  then  realizing  that  the  terrace  was 
not  yet  quite  deserted,  he  restrained  the  impulse  and 
laughed. 

"  Is  it  so  serious  as  all  that?  " 

The  girl  met  his  laughter  with  wide  and  very  seri- 
ous eyes.  It  even  seemed  to  Malcolm  that  there  was  a 
little  catch  in  her  voice. 

"  It  is  to  me,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  shall  look  for 
you  at  seven." 

Juanita  nodded  and  started  toward  the  gates,  and 
after  a  moment  the  man  also  turned  and  made  his  way 
to  the  showers. 

As  she  followed  the  gravel  walks  roses  were  massed 
along  her  way  and  hedges  sparkled  with  a  delicacy 


6  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

which  the  sun  had  not  yet  burned.  The  last  of  the 
polo  ponies  went  by,  blanketed  and  led  by  grooms.  As 
they  paraded  to  the  stables  they  picked  up  their  feet 
gingerly  and  pranced  in  dainty  scorn  of  fatigue.  In 
them  as  in  their  riders  there  seemed  to  dwell  the  para- 
mount instinct  of  sportsmanship. 

It  was  all  very  pleasant  and  full  of  charm :  the  charm 
of  glad  young  summer  and  trimmed  lawns  and  lengthen- 
ing velvety  shadows :  of  opulence  and  ease. 

At  the  stone  gateposts  of  her  own  grounds  where 
honeysuckle  clambered  and  where  a  little  stream 
trickled  down  through  the  trimmed  box-rows,  her  great 
Dane  stood  waiting  to  meet  her,  wriggling  his  tawny 
body  as  he  waved  his  tail  in  greeting. 

He  lumbered  about  her  and  thrust  up  his  huge  muz- 
zle to  her  cool  fingers  while  his  eyes  glowed  with  an 
affection  that  gave  a  ludicrous  lie  to  the  ferocity  of 
their  reddened  haws.  When  she  handed  him  a  glove 
to  carry  he  set  it  gingerly  between  his  leonine  fangs 
and  strutted  at  her  side  with  the  exaggerated  pomp  of 
a  canine  cake-walker. 

"  Danny  Holland ! "  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  and  a 
choke  came  into  her  voice.  "  Roger  gave  you  to  me 
the  same  day  he  gave  me  my  ring.  That  was  a  year 
ago  and  I  was  very  happy.  I'm  not  happy  any  more, 
Danny-dog,  and  you  are  the  first  person  I've  told  about 
it.  In  that  year  you've  grown  up  from  a  puppy,  but  in 
many  years  lie  hasn't  grown  at  all." 

She  glanced  about  her,  but  she  and  the  dog  were 
between  the  shrubberies  of  the  lawn  and  cut  off  from 
the  turnpike  by  the  tall  box  hedge.  They  were  quite 
alone.  Suddenly  the  girl  dropped  to  her  knees  and 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  7 

seized  her  great,  clumsy  confidant  about  his  mastiff 
neck. 

"  Pm  afraid  —  I'm  terribly,  sickeningly  afraid, 
Danny  Holland,  he  never  will  grow  up  —  and  so  I'm 
going  away  to  leave  you  both." 

If  the  dog  realized  the  true  enormity  of  that  threat, 
he  masked  his  grief  as  a  chivalric  dog  should  mask  his 
deeper  emotions.  He  waved  his  tail  with  grave,  un- 
hurried dignity  and  thrust  his  head  around  to  gaze 
sympathetically  into  his  mistress's  face.  If  for  the 
moment  he  forgot  his  low  caste  and  the  high  estate  of 
the  beautiful  lady  and  allowed  himself  to  caress  her 
bowed  chin  with  his  big  tongue,  the  impertinence  may 
have  been  pardonable. 

At  all  events  she  did  not  rebuke  him.  She  only 
picked  up  the  glove  he  had  dropped  and  gave  it  back 
into  his  keeping.  She  dashed  her  hand  self-con- 
temptuously  across  her  eyes  and  when  she  went  into 
the  door  to  dress  for  dinner  no  one  could  have  guessed 
that  a  few  minutes  before  she  had  been  on  the  verge  of 
tears. 

The  moon  was  near  her  fullest  argency  that  evening 
and  the  clambering  roses  nodded  in  her  light  in  Juanita 
Holland's  garden.  Shadows  laid  black  velvet  patches 
across  a  stretch  of  silver  gray. 

From  the  nearest  house,  separated  by  grounds  that 
were  in  reality  small  parks,  came  a  happy  chorus  of 
young  voices,  and  the  songs  that  they  sung  were  suited 
to  the  night;  a  night  when  spring  fancies  itself  sum- 
mer. 

In  the  soft  luminance  and  the  dusky  shadow-smudges 


8  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  girl  and  the  man  came  out  to  a  stone  bench,  and 
as  Juanita  Holland  took  her  seat  she  fell  for  a  mo- 
ment into  an  attitude  of  drooping  misery.  Then  im- 
mediately the  shoulders  that  showed  above  her  dark 
evening  gown  came  back  with  a  military  stanchness  and 
she  held  them  so ;  as  firm  and  white  as  ivory,  and  raised 
her  chin  resolutely.  Malcolm,  a  wraith-like  shape  in 
his  flannels,  drew  out  a  cigar  and  lighted  it,  and  as  the 
match  died  it  caught  a  whimsical  smile  on  his  lips. 
With  one  foot  on  the  stone  bench  and  an  elbow  resting 
on  his  knee  he  began  banteringly. 

"  So  now  it's  the  lecture,  dearest,  is  it?  Proceed. 
*  I've  a  heart  for  any  fate.' 5: 

"  Have  you  ?  "  She  put  the  query  quietly,  almost 
listlessly,  and  after  that  she  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  drew  the  engagement  ring  from  her  finger  and 
held  it  out  to  him.  A  little  splinter  of  light  was  tossed 
from  one  of  the  facets. 

"  That's  the  first  thing,  Roger,"  she  went  on.  "  It 
isn't  an  easy  thing  either,  but  I've  got  to  do  it." 

Her  companion  did  not  extend  his  hand.  His  face 
in  the  white  light  was  suddenly  rigid  and  stunned.  At 
last  he  asked,  pronouncing  each  word  very  carefully 
and  distinctly,  "  Have  you  stopped  loving  me?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head  with  the  weariness  of  a  long 
fought  uncertainty. 

"  I  wish  I  knew.  But  it  isn't  just  a  question  of  lov- 
ing you,  Roger.  It's  a  question  of  marrying,  too,  and 
I  can't  marry  you." 

She  could  not  help  watching  with  an  impersonal  in.- 
tentness  how  the  fingers  of  the  hand  that  drooped  across 
his  knee  stiffened  and  opened  and  stiffened  again  and 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  9 

how  he  studied  them  as  if  they  were  the  fingers  of  an- 
other man. 

"  You  have  promised  —  and  you  promised  of  your  own 
free  will." 

She  nodded.  He  had  spoken,  not  argumentatively, 
but  as  one  gently  reminding  her  of  something  which 
she  had  seemed  to  forget. 

"  I  promised  because  I  wanted  to.  If  I  refuse  now 
it's  not  exactly  because  I  want  to." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"It's  a  very  hard  thing  to  tell  you.  If  it  hurts 
you,  it  has  hurt  me,  too,  and  hurt  me  rather 
terribly  .  .  .  the  reason,  Roger,  is  yourself." 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said  with  an  effort,  his  voice  still 
rather  dazed  and  stunned,  "  there  are  a  good  many 
things  the  matter  with  me,  but  what  particular  fault 
do  you  find  fatal  ?  Of  course  you  know  — "  his  utter- 
ance suddenly  grew  fervent  — "  that  if  it's  humanly  pos- 
sible I'll  change  it." 

Again  the  shake  of  her  head  denoted  the  hopeless- 
ness of  argument.  "  It's  nothing  that  you  can  change. 
Perhaps  the  fault  is  altogether  mine  .  .  .  perhaps  I'm 
just  the  sort  of  girl  that  sees  things  wrong.  ...  I 
was  proud  of  you  this  afternoon  on  the  polo  field  .  .  . 
but  life  isn't  just  a  polo  field."  She  leaned  forward  and 
her  hands  went  out  in  a  somewhat  pathetic  gesture. 
"  You  mustn't  think  it's  easy  for  me.  Maybe  if  I 
loved  you  it  wouldn't  matter  what  you  were  or  what 
you  weren't.  Maybe  I'm  not  capable  of  real  love  — 
but  I've  always  thought  I  loved  you.  I  have  never 
loved  any  one  else.  I  wonder  if  we've  both  been  mis- 
taken about  it  all  the  while." 


10  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  I  haven't  been  mistaken,"  he  denied  indignantly. 
"  There  is  no  question  about  my  love  for  you." 

In  the  moon  he  saw  that  her  lashes  were  wet. 

"  Of  course,"  he  very  gravely  went  on,  "  I  couldn't 
hold  you  to  any  promise  that  your  heart  repudiates. 
Of  course  there's  no  question  of  that,  but  can't  you 
make  it  just  a  little  clearer?  Precisely  how  do  I  fall 
short?" 

Juanita  sat  silently  studying  his  pallid  face  and 
set  jaw.  Some  men  would  have  been  reproachful.  In 
his  generous  attitude  he  appeared  almost  at  his  best, 
and  it  was  very  hard  to  let  him  go. 

She  was  already  hurting  him  enough.  How  could 
she  tell  him  what  was  in  her  mind  ?  "  You  are  the 
gentleman,  polished  and  letter-perfect,  yet  you  are  not 
after  all  —  quite  a  man." 

She  turned  and  gazed  off  at  the  sky  which  the  stars 
would  have  made  effervescent  with  their  bubbles  of 
splintered  light  had  the  moon  not  dimmed  them.  Her 
intertwined  fingers  were  tightly  locked  and  her  words 
came  slowly  and  with  difficulty.  They  came  not  in 
her  own  phrases,  but  in  quotation: 

" '  That  self-same  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath.' " 

There  was  a  pause  and  her  voice  was  very  faint  when 
she  added: 

"  I  want  my  husband  not  to  be  a  swordless 
sheath." 

The  man  nodded  miserably  and  he  asked,  "  Must  I 
only  ride  past  then,  dear?  Don't  you  remember  other 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  11 

lines   a  little  further  on?     The  Duke   saw   a  woman 
and  loved  her  — 

"  *  And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man, — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise."* 

"  The  poet  said  so  and  yet  — "  she  shook  her  head 
resolutely  as  if  to  shake  away  webs  of  clouding  inde- 
cision — "  and  yet  at  the  end  of  the  poem  he  had  done 
nothing." 

Roger  Malcolm  moved  a  step  toward  her,  then  halted. 

"  Will  you  wait  here  a  few  minutes  ?  "  he  begged. 
"  It  has  all  come  so  suddenly  —  I  must  try  to  think." 
She  nodded  and  while  from  the  bench  she  looked  back, 
as  she  believed,  on  the  ruins  of  all  her  life's  air  castles, 
she  saw  him  pacing  measuredly  back  and  forth  across 
the  moonlit  lawn.  His  hands  were  tight-held  at  his 
back  and  as  he  walked  the  great  Dane  shambled,  with  a 
sort  of  hulking  stateliness,  at  his  heels. 

"It  seems,"  he  said,  when  he  rejoined  her,  "that  I 
have  been  weighed  and  found  wanting.  If  it's  a  light 
matter  to  you  —  if  it  costs  you  nothing  to  exile  me 
from  your  life,  I  suppose  I  should  accept  my  sentence 
without  whimpering.  But  how  about  you?  You 
aren't  the  sort  of  woman  who  fancies  herself  in  love 
only  to  forget  it  in  an  instant.  What  does  it  mean  to 
you  ?  " 

The  girl's  lips  parted,  but  for  a  moment  no  sound 
came  from  them  except  a  little  gasp.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  and  her  response  came  faintly 
from  behind  her  fingers.  "  I  think  that  when  this  ends, 
my  life  ends.  Afterwards  it  will  be  only  existence." 


13  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

At  once  he  was  kneeling  by  her  side  and  had  caught 
both  her  hands  in  his  own,  wresting  them  away  from 
her  face.  His  voice  was  now  a-thrill  once  more  with 
fervor.  "  Then  you  still  love  me !  You  love  me  whether 
you  know  it  or  not,  and  I'll  not  release  you.  ...  I 
know  I've  been  weak  in  a  hundred  ways.  I've  never 
been  hypocrite  enough  to  deny  that.  ...  I  know  I'm 
self-indulgent  and  given  to  following  the  easiest 
course.  .  .  .  I've  never  had  to  fight  to  keep  my  head 
above  water,  but  I'll  change  it  all  —  everything.  Give 
me  the  chance,  dearest!  Look  at  it  fairly.  Analyze 
yourself  as  well  as  me." 

She  smiled  wistfully  down  into  his  eager  face. 

"  You  analyze  me,"  she  suggested. 

"  In  your  veins  run  two  strains  of  blood,"  he  be- 
gan vehemently.  "  Your  people  have  been  soldiers  and 
scholars.  The  soldiers  have  given  you  an  exaggerated 
admiration  for  sheer  untempered  and  unreasoning  cour- 
age ;  the  scholars  have  bequeathed  you  an  over-bal- 
anced seriousness  of  thought.  You  grew  up  in  a 
womanless  family.  You  were  mistress  of  your  house 
when  you  were  practically  a  baby.  Since  you  were  a 
little  girl  you  were  always  with  your  grandfather,  and 
your  grandfather  lived  with  abstractions  for  playmates 
to  the  day  of  his  death." 

"  At  least  they  were  noble  abstractions,"  she  an- 
swered proudly. 

"  They  were  noble  enough,  but  none  the  less  ab- 
stractions. For  example,  a  school  in  the  far  away 
Appalachian  Mountains  appeared  a  nearer  concern  to 
him  than  an  honest  city  government  here  in  Phila- 
delphia. He  educated  you  as  he  might  have  educated 


13 

a  trained  nurse  or  a  medical  missionary,  stuffing  your 
little  head,  too,  with  abstract  things ;  you  who  had 
never  dressed  or  undressed  yourself  without  a  maid! 
I  believe  in  my  heart  the  old  gentleman  had  an  idea 
that  you  could  go  down  there  single-handed  into  that 
God-forgotten  wilderness  and  teach  the  bare-footed  lit- 
tle feudists  to  read  and  write !  " 

"  They  need  schools  badly  down  there,"  she  said 
thoughtfully.  "  I  know  that  he  wanted  me  to  devote 
a  good  part  of  his  fortune  to  giving  their  starved 
minds  and  souls  a  chance.  I  know  that  I  am  expected 
to  be  his  stewardess  in  carrying  on  his  work.  I'm  very 
proud  of  that." 

"  That's  all  right,"  argued  the  man  stoutly.  "  It's 
splendid,  but  just  the  same  it  shows  that  your  judg- 
ment may  be  a  little  warped,  dearest,  with  a  life  spent 
so  close  to  ideals  that  it's  far  away  from  facts.  Per- 
haps it  may  make  you  a  trifle  unjust  to  the  ordinary, 
every-day  sort  of  man  that  just  lives  normally  and 
tries  to  be  fairly  decent  about  it.  We  can't  all  be 
Cffiur  de  Lions,  you  know." 

"  Do  you  know  why  my  grandfather  was  so  inter- 
ested in  those  mountaineers?"  she  loyally  defended. 
"  Do  you  realize  that  for  two  hundred  years  the  clear- 
est strain  of  Anglo-Saxon  blood  in  America  has  been 
cut  off,  isolated,  and  left  to  rot  in  those  hills  ?  " 

*'  I'm  arguing  now,"  he  reminded  her,  "  for  what  is, 
to  me,  the  most  vital  issue  in  life,  and  these  men  and 
women  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  Please,  dear, 
let  me  at  least  have  my  day  in  court." 

From  across  the  way  came  the  gay  chorus  of  the 
young  people's  song,  contralto  and  bass  and  tenor,  but 


14  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

by  the  stone  bench  there  was  silence.  Malcolm  had 
risen  and  stood  waiting,  and  finally  Juanita  spoke 
again  low  and  seriously. 

"  Those  men  and  women  have  something  to  do  with 
you,  Roger.  .  .  .  This  isn't  a  sudden  decision.  .  .  . 
I've  fought  it  all  out  in  my  own  mind  and  the  verdict 
has  been  hard  to  reach,  but  it's  reached  now  and  it's 
final.  All  you  say  may  be  true.  I  may  have  taken 
too  serious  a  view,  but  it's  my  view.  Yet  I've  danced 
and  ridden  and  played  tennis  and  polo  as  much  as  any 
other  girl.  I've  laughed  as  often,  and  as  light- 
heartedly  as  any  of  them  and  I  haven't  been  altogether 
without  a  sense  of  humor." 

"  You're  the  best  sportswoman  in  the  world ;  you 
have  the  keenest  sense  of  humor  in  the  world  and  you're 
altogether  the  most  delectable  girl  in  the  world  —  but 
you  aren't  precisely  infallible.  Perhaps  even  your 
judgment  of  me  is  not  infallible." 

"  I'm  very  fallible,  but  for  six  months  I've  been  pon- 
dering this  question.  We're  not  meant  for  each  other, 
Roger.  There's  no  escaping  it.  If  there  had  been 
I'd  have  escaped.  I've  been  running  here  and  there, 
looking  wildly  for  a  loop-hole  .  .  .  but  now  I  know 
there  is  none.  You  asked  me  what  giving  you  up 
means  to  me.  I'll  tell  you.  If  I'd  lived  some  centuries 
ago  I'd  have  betaken  me  to  a  nunnery.  I  can't  go  on 
living  in  our  world  without  you.  I  admit  that  freely, 
dear." 

"  Thank  God  you  didn't  live  several  centuries  ago," 
came  his  fervent  exclamation.  "  And  you  don't  have 
to  live  without  me." 

Juanita  shook  her  head   again,  the   wistful  smile 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  15 

deepened    her    eyes    and    twisted    one    corner    of    her 
lips. 

"  And.  so,"  she  added  suddenly,  "  I'm  going  to  be- 
take me  to  a  more  useful  sort  of  nunnery,  Roger,  dear. 
I'm  going  to  betake  me  to  the  Cumberland  Mountains, 
to  teach  the  *  bare-footed  little  feudists '  how  to  read 
and  write  and  wash  their  faces  and  comb  their  hair. 
I'm  going  to  try  to  teach  them  to  forget  some  things 
they  already  know;  principally  assassination  from 
ambush." 


CHAPTER  II 

FOR  just  an  instant  Roger  Malcolm  stood  trans- 
fixed with  amazement.  When  his  voice  came 
it  was  as  charged  with  dumfounded  incredulity 
as  his  attitude. 

"  The  Cumberland  Mountains  ?  You  ? "  he  ques- 
tioned dully. 

"  Yes." 

With  the  passionate  vehemence  of  one  struggling  to 
break  a  paralyzing  spell  he  was  at  her  side  and  had 
swept  her  into  his  arms.  His  excitement  tensed  his 
muscles  so  fiercely  that  as  the  girl  fluttered  vainly  in 
his  grasp  she  gave  a  low  exclamation  of  pain.  The 
mastiff,  deeply  puzzled  and  torn  between  two  alle- 
giances, growled  deep  in  his  throat  and  took  a  stiff- 
legged  step  forward  while  the  bristles  rose  along  his 
quarters. 

"  By  God,  you  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort ! "  Mal- 
colm spoke  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  It's  too  damnably 
absurd.  You  are  not  going.  Do  you  hear  me?  You 
are  not  going !  " 

"  Please  let  me  go, —  you  are  hurting  me,"  she  said 
quietly  and  he  found  himself  standing  back  and  sud- 
denly trembling,  for  as  her  face  had  almost  brushed  his, 
he  had  read  her  eyes  and  knew  that  in  the  end  all  ar- 
gument would  fail. 

"  My  mind  is  finally  made  up,"  she  reiterated  gently. 

15 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  17 

"  That,  too,  is  a  thing  I've  been  weighing  and  ponder- 
ing these  last  six  months." 

"  And  mine  is  made  up,  too."  He  leaned  forward 
and  for  just  a  moment  thrilled  her  with  a  new  com- 
mand of  pose  and  voice.  "  As  God  lives  I  sha'n't  let 
you  go.  You're  throwing  my  life  away  as  well  as 
your  own,  and  I  don't  mean  to  let  you  do  it." 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  The  girl  stood  leaning  against  a 
stone  coping  and  just  a  hint  of  hope  that  she  had  un- 
derestimated him  stole  flickeringly  into  her  pupils. 
"  If  you  can  stop  me,  do  it.  That  will  prove  that  the 
sheath  is  really  filled  with  *  a  blade  for  a  knight's  em- 
prise.' " 

But  even  as  he  stood  there  in  the  moonlight  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  him  the  set  of  his  jaw  and  resolute 
dominance  of  his  eye  melted  into  suffering  of  hope- 
lessness which  she  ached  to  comfort.  On  the  heels  of 
fierce  command  followed  expostulation  and  pleading. 

"  Juanita,  your  grandfather  never  meant  that  you 
should  go  into  that  lawless  hell.  He  meant  you  to  be 
the  directing  mind,  not  the  laborer  in  the  field.  It's 
a  life  of  squalor  and  dreariness.  It  would  kill  you." 

He  paused,  then  rushed  on  in  headlong  dissuasion. 
"  Your  life  has  been  the  normal  life  of  your  sort ;  of 
ease  and  play  and  of  a  deliciously  rhythmic  personal- 
ity. This  idea  is  absurdly  incongruous.  It  is  mad- 
ness." 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  are  going  to  stop  me  ?  "  she 
queried  a  little  scornfully.  "  You  say  I  have  the  blood 
of  soldiers  and  scholars.  The  combination  ought  to 
give  a  touch  of  the  crusader,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

"  For  a  hundred  years,  dearest,   courts   and  juries 


18  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

and  the  bayonets  of  militiamen  have  struggled  to  tame 
and  civilize  those  barbaric  people,  and  for  a  hundred 
years  they  have  utterly  failed.  There  is  one  god  down 
there  and  his  name  is  Implacable  Hatred." 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  almost  time  they  had  another 
God?  I  sha'n't  go  with  juries  or  bayonets." 

"  You   would   have    to    go   without   knowing    them, 
with  no  knowledge  of  their  ways,  their  point  of  view." 
"  I  don't  know  them  now,  but  I  will  know  them." 
"  You  haven't  even   a  letter  of  introduction." 
"  I  never  heard,"  her  voice  rang  with  a  note  against 
which  he  knew  the   futility   of  argument,   "  that   the 
Saviour  needed  letters  of  introduction." 

She  had  moved  out  of  the  shadow  now  and  the  moon- 
light fell  on  her  white  shoulders  and  the  slender  neck 
that  held  her  little  head  so  fearlessly  poised.  From 
the  hair  that  the  soft  light  kissed  to  the  tips  of  her 
satin  slippers  she  was  delicate,  exquisite  and  flower- 
like.  The  pearls  on  her  throat  rose  and  fell  with  the 
agitation  of  her  breathing,  but  her  eyes  were  as  steady 
in  their  straight-gazing  resolve  as  were  ever  the  eyes 
of  Jeanne  d'Arc.  The  man  whose  blood  was  scalding 
his  temples  knew  that  he  had  lost  and  that  she  would 

g°- 

"  You  are  carried  away  with  the  hallucination  of 

an  exalted  mission,"  he  protested.  "  They  are  not 
worth  it.  Only  yesterday  I  was  reading  in  a  paper  the 
biography  of  one  of  their  feud  leaders,  a  man  named 
*  Bad  Anse '  Havey.  He  has  not  even  the  excuse  of 
illiteracy.  He  has  served  in  the  State  Assembly  and 
he  holds  his  minions  in  the  hollow  of  his  blood-stained 
hand.  He  lives  like  a  murder  lord,  dealing  out  sen- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  19 

tences  of  death  at  will,  while  all  the  power  of  the  State 

seems  helpless  to  curb  him." 

"  I  read  about  him,  too,"  she  said,  "  and  the  fact 

that  such  a  man  can  wield  power  like  that  is  only  the 

greater  reason  for  carrying  to  them  a  better  code." 
"  You  shaVt  go,"  he  reiterated.  "  You  shaVt ! " 
"  Stop  me  then,  Roger  dear,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  At  all  events  I'm  not  going  to-night.     It's  getting 

chilly  out  here.     Let's  go  indoors." 

The  leaves  of  poplar  and  oak  hung  still  and  limp, 
for  no  ghost  of  breeze  found  its  way  down  there  to  stir 
them  into  movement  or  whisper.  Banks  of  rhododen- 
dron breaking  into  a  foam  of  bloom  gave  the  seeming 
of  green  and  whitecaped  waves  arrested  and  solidified 
by  some  sudden  paralysis  of  nature.  Sound  itself  ap- 
peared dead,  save  for  hushed  minors  that  only  accen- 
tuated the  stillness  of  the  Cumberland  forest. 

There  was  the  low  buzz  of  a  bumble  bee  hanging  near 
the  chalice  of  the  catalpa's  blossom  and  a  drowsy  ca- 
dence drifting  from  the  green-blanketed  slopes  of  the 
mountains;  the  plaintive  call  of  the  nesting  dove. 

Even  the  little  waters  that  slipped  and  shimmered 
over  a  shaly  creek  bed,  crept  noiselessly  down  to  their 
destiny  of  feeding  rivers  as  though  their  mission  was 
surreptitious. 

Now  as  evening  sent  her  warning  with  gathering 
shadows  that  began  to  lurk  in  the  valleys,  two  mounted 
figures,  traveling  that  way,  made  no  sound  either  save 
when  a  hoof  splashed  on  a  slippery  surface  or  saddle 
leather  creaked  under  the  patient  scrambling  of  their 
animals. 


30  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

In  front  rode  a  battered  mountaineer  astride  a  rusty- 
brown  mule.  He  himself  was  as  rusty  and  brown  as 
his  beast,  and  to  casual  sight  as  spiritless.  Lean  shoul- 
ders sagged  and  a  thin,  weary-eyed  face  was  thrust 
forward  on  a  long,  collarless  neck  with  something  sug- 
gestive of  a  turtle's  head  in  its  aquiline  contour.  His 
clothing,  from  shapeless  hat  to  unlaced  brogans,  was 
sun-gnawed  and  wind-bitten  into  absolute  neutrality  of 
color.  His  uncertain  age  might  have  been  anything 
except  young  —  for  he  had  crossed  the  boundary  where 
a  mountaineer  bids  an  early  farewell  to  youth  and  goes 
under  the  aging  yoke  of  hardship  and  drudgery. 

The  second  figure  came  some  yards  behind,  care- 
fully following  in  his  wake  on  a  mule  which  limped  and 
drooped  its  head  because  it  had  cast  its  shoe  in  the 
morning  and  toiled  over  mountains  all  day  through  a 
smithless  territory. 

But  it  was  the  figure  itself  which  would  have  arrested 
observation  with  its  seeming  contradiction  to  the  en- 
vironment. It  had  startled  into  quaint  exclamation 
those  men  and  women  in  jeans  and  linsey-woolsey  who 
had  appeared  now  and  then  in  tilting  cornfields  along 
the  mountain-sides.  They  had  "  rested  their  hoes " 
and  stood  at  gaze,  for  the  second  mule  bore  a  woman, 
riding  astride.  She  was  a  young  woman,  and  if  just 
BOW  her  slender  shoulders  also  drooped  a  little,  still 
«ven  in  their  droop  they  hinted  at  a  gallant  grace  of 
carriage. 

The  girl  was  very  slender  and  though  convoyed  by 
the  drab  missionary,  "  Good  Anse "  Talbott,  though 
astride  a  lame  mule  and  accoutered  with  saddle-bags 
and  blanket  roll,  her  clothes  were  not  of  mountain 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  21 

calico,  but  of  good  fabric,  and  skillfully  tailored,  and 
she  carried  her  head  differently.  There  was  uncon- 
scious pride  of  race  and  purpose  in  the  uptilt  of  that 
girl's  chin,  and  though  now  she  was  very  tired  and  her 
delicately  curving  lips  fell  into  a  somewhat  pathetic 
droop ;  though  her  eyes  wore  a  hint  of  furrow  be- 
tween their  brows,  still  the  lips  were  subtly  and  sweetly 
carved  by  their  Creator  and  the  eyes  were  worthy  mir- 
rors for  the  sky  high  above  the  topmost  crest  of  the 
ridges. 

Indubitably  this  was  a  "  furriner,"  one  of  those 
women  from  the  other  world  of  Down-below;  the  world 
that  lay  beyond  the  ridges  to  the  east  and  west,  of 
which  the  hill  people  had  only  a  vague  conception.  She 
was  an  outlander  to  be,  at  first  glance,  viewed  with 
the  suspicion  that  resents  the  coming  of  innovation  to 
a  land  which  has  long  stood  unaltered  and  unalterable. 
But  who  was  she  and  why  had  she  come? 

Yet,  had  she  known  it,  word  had  gone  ahead  of  her 
and  been  duly  reported  to  the  one  man  who  knew  things 
hereabouts;  who  made  it  a  point  to  know  things,  and 
whose  name  stood  as  a  challenge  to  innovation  in  the 
mountains.  When  at  morning  she  had  started  out 
from  the  shack  town  at  the  end  of  the  rails  "  Bad  Anse  " 
Havey's  informers  had  ridden  not  far  behind  her. 
Later  they  had  pushed  ahead  and  relayed  their  mes- 
sage to  their  chief. 

Like  one  of  the  untamable  eagles  that  circled  th« 
windy  cres'ts  of  his  mountains,  Anse  Havey  watched, 
with  eyes  that  could  gaze  unblinking  into  the  sun,  all 
men  who  came  and  went  through  the  highlands  where 
his  eyrie  perched.  Those  whom  he  hated,  unless  they, 


32  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

too,  were  of  the  eagle  breed,  fierce  and  resourceful  and 
strong  of  talon,  could  not  remain  there.  And  with 
strong  wings  as  well  as  strong  talons  he  and  his  sort 
laughed  at  all  law  which  they  did  not  themselves  make 
and  fancied  themselves  above  it  —  creatures  of  the 
heights. 

This  slender  young  woman,  astride  a  mule,  was 
coming  as  the  avowed  outrider  of  a  new  order.  She 
meant  to  wage  war  on  the  whole  fabric  of  illiteracy 
and  squalid  ignorance  which  lay  entrenched  here. 
Consequently  her  arrival  would  interest  Bad  Anse 
Havey. 

Once  that  day  when  they  had  stopped  at  a  wayside 
mill  to  let  their  mules  pant  at  the  water-trough,  she 
had  caught  a  scrap  of  conversation  that  was  not  meant 
for  her  ears;  a  scrap  laughingly  tossed  from  bearded 
lip  to  bearded  lip  among  the  hickory-shirted  loiterers 
at  the  mill  door. 

"  Reckon  thet  thar's  the  fotched-on  woman  what 
aims  ter  start  a  school  over  on  the  head  of  Tribulation,'* 
drawled  one  native ;  "  I  heered  tell  of  her  t'other  day." 

With  a  somewhat  derisive  laugh  another  had  con- 
tributed, 

"  Mebby  she  hain't  talked  thet  projeck  over  with 
Bad  Anse  yit.  Reckon  he  don't  'low  ter  tolerate  no 
sich  foolery  es  thet." 

As  she  had  stiffened  in  her  saddle  with  resentment 
and  fighting  spirit  a  third  voice  had  pensively  volun- 
teered the  suggestion :  "  Hit  mout  be  a  right-good  idee 
fer  thet  gal  ter  go  on  back  down  below,  whar  she 
b'longs  at." 

The  girl  was  thinking  of  all  that  now  as  she  rode  in 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  23 

the  wake  of  her  silent  escort.  Muscles  which  had  never 
before  proclaimed  themselves  were  waking  into  a  rack 
of  pain  in  her  back  and  neck  and  limbs  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  be  gallant  and  resolute  when  one  is  tired.  Sud- 
denly it  seemed  to  her  that  she  bore  on  the  shoulders  of 
a  girl  fresh  from  college,  and  reared  to  ease,  a  burden 
which  Atlas  should  be  hefting. 

They  came  ploddingly  to  a  higher  strip  of  road,  and 
she  clutched  at  her  pommel  and  swayed  a  little  in  her 
saddle  under  a  dizzying  wave  of  physical  exhaustion. 
Now  the  mountains  opened  from  their  choking  close- 
ness and  ahead  lay  a  broad  vista. 

Even  the  sprays  of  elder  and  the  flare  of  the  trumpet 
flower  carried  a  color  note  of  weed-like  lawlessness. 
That  such  lawlessness  as  held  these  hills  locked  in  its 
grip  could  exist  in  her  century  had  always  seemed  to 
her  incredible.  Now  the  sun  was  sinking  into  a  bank 
of  somber  clouds  through  a  rift  in  the  ridges,  and  the 
clouds  were  crimsoned  at  their  marges  as  though  with 
the  blood  of  this  people's  ferocity.  Why  had  the  po- 
tent wave  of  civilization  always  broken  here  in  shat- 
tered foam?  This  morning  she  had  asked  herself  that 
question.  This  afternoon,  she  looked  at  the  mountains 
and  the  mountains  were  the  answer.  There  they  stood 
before  her  rock-ribbed  and  titanic.  They  were  beau- 
tiful beyond  words,  but  unshakably  sullen  and  inex- 
pressibly grim.  These  were  the  hills  she  had  come  to 
change;  hills  fixed  and  invincible;  hills  that  had  halted 
and  deflected  the  restless  flow  of  civilization  as  armor 
plate  might  turn  a  rocket's  fire. 

They  had  nourished  medievalism  unaltered  through 
two  centuries;  they  had  been  ancient  when  the  Alps 


ft* 

and  Himalayas  yet  slept  in  the  womb  of  the  sea;  old 
before  the  Andes  were  conceived!  And  as  she  rode  her 
hobbling  mule  into  their  depths  with  wilting  confidence, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  human  incarnation  of  this 
great  lawlessness  stood  mocking  her  in  the  fierce,  con- 
temptuous visage  which  her  imagination  had  painted 
as  that  of  Bad  Anse  Havey.  Here  was  a  desperado, 
defying  all  law  whom  a  sovereign  commonwealth  could 
not  or  would  not  rise  and  crush. 

In  a  moment  of  almost  cringing  despair  she  wished 
indeed  that  she  were  "  back  thar  down  below  whar  she 
blonged  at." 

Then  almost  fiercely  drawing  back  her  aching  shoul- 
ders, she  cast  her  eyes  about  on  the  darkening  coves 
and  the  creeping  shadows  of  the  broad  panorama  from 
which  came  no  thread  of  smoke,  no  sign  of  human 
habitation  and  raised  her  voice  in  anxious  inquiry. 
"  How  much  further  do  we  have  to  go  ?  " 

The  man  riding  ahead  did  not  turn  his  face,  but 
flung  his  answer  apathetically  backward  over  his  shoul- 
der. "  We  got  to  keep  right  on  twell  we  comes  ter  a 
dwellin'-house.  I'm  aimin'  fer  old  man  Fletch  Mc- 
Nash's  cabin  a  leetle  ther  rise  of  a  mile  frum  hyar. 
I  'low  mebby  he  mout  shelter  us  twell  mornin V 

"And  if  he  doesn't?"  demanded  the  girl. 

**  Ef  he  doesn't  we've  got  ter  ride  on  a  spell  fur- 
ther." 

The  girl  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  and  pressed 
her  lip  between  her  teeth. 

At  last  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brought  to  view  a 
wretched  patch  of  bare  clay  circled  by  a  dilapidated 
paling  fence  within  which  gloomed  a  squalid  and  un- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  25 

lighted  cabin  of  logs.  At  sight  of  its  desolation,  the 
girl's  heart  sank.  No  note  of  cheery  light  gave  com- 
fort to  her  weariness.  A  square  hovel,  windowless  and 
obviously,  of  one  room,  held  up  a  wretched  lean-to  that 
sagged  drunkenly  against  its  end.  The  open  door 
was  merely  a  patch  of  greater  darkness  in  the  gray 
picture.  Behind  it  loomed  the  mountain  like  a  crouch- 
ing Colossus. 

At  first  she  thought  it  an  abandoned  shack,  but  as 
they  drew  rein  near  the  stile  which  one  must  cross  into 
the  yard  and  which  a  gnarled  sycamore  shaded,  a  dark 
object  lazily  rose,  resolving  itself  into  a  small  boy  of 
perhaps  eleven,  who  had  been  sitting  hunched  up  there 
at  gaze  with  his  hands  clasped  around  his  thin  knees. 

As  he  came  to  his  feet,  he  revealed  a  thin  stature 
swallowed  up  in  a  hickory  shirt  and  an  over-ample  pair 
of  butternut  trousers  that  had  evidently  come  down 
in  honorable  heritage  from  elder  brethren.  His  small 
face  wore  a  sharp,  prematurely  old  expression,  as  he 
stood  staring  up  at  the  new  arrivals  and  hitching  at 
the  single  "  gallus "  which  supported  the  family 
breeches. 

"  Airy  one  o'  ye  folks  got  a  chaw  o'  terbaccy  ?  "  he 
demanded  tersely,  then  added  in  plaintive  after-note, 
"  I  hain't  had  a  chaw  ter-day." 

"  Sonny,"  announced  the  colorless  mountaineer  with 
equal  succinctness,  "  we  want  ter  be  took  in.  We're 
benighted." 

"  Ye  mout  axe  Fletch,"  was  the  stolid  reply,  "  only 
he  hain't  hyar.  .  .  .  Hes  airy  one  o*  ye  folks  got  a 
chaw  o'  terbaccy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  chaw,  ner  drink,  ner  smoke,"  answered  the 


26  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

horseman  quietly,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  teaches 
by  precept.  "  I'm  a  preacher  of  ther  Gawspel.  Air 
ye  Fletch's  boy?" 

"  Huh-huh.  Hain't  thet  woman  got  no  terbaccy 
nuther?  " 

Evidently  whatever  other  characteristics  went  into 
this  youth's  nature  he  was  admirably  gifted  with 
tenacity  and  singleness  of  purpose.  Juanita  Holland 
smiled,  as  she  shook  her  head  and  replied,  "  I'm  a 
woman  and  I  don't  use  tobacco." 

"  The  hell  ye  don't !  "  The  boy  paused,  then  added 
scornfully,  "  My  mammy  chaws  and  smokes,  too  —  but 
she  don't  straddle  no  hoss."  After  that  administra- 
tion of  rebuke  he  deigned  once  more  to  recognize  the 
missionary's  insistent  queries,  though  with  the  laconic 
impatience  of  extreme  ennui. 

"  I  tell  ye  Fletch  hain't  hyar."  The  boy  started  dis- 
gustedly away,  but  paused  in  passing  to  jerk  his  head 
toward  the  house  and  added,  "  Ye  mout  axe  thet  woman 
ef  ye've  a  mind  ter." 

The  travelers  raised  their  eyes  and  saw  a  second 
figure  standing  with  hands  on  hips  staring  at  them 
from  the  distance.  It  was  the  slovenly  figure  of  a 
woman,  clad  in  a  colorless  and  shapeless  skirt  and  an 
equally  shapeless  jacket  which  hung  unbelted  about 
her  thick  waist.  As  she  came  slowly  forward  the  girl 
began  to  take  in  other  details.  The  woman  was  bare- 
footed and  walked  with  a  shambling  gait  which  made 
Juanita  think  of  bears  pacing  their  barred  enclosures 
in  a  zoo.  Her  face  was  hard  and  unsmiling,  and  the 
wrinkles  about  her  eyes  were  those  of  anxious  and 
lean  years,  but  the  eyes  themselves  were  not  unkind. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  27 

Her  lips  were  tight  clamped  on  the  stem  of  a  clay 
pipe. 

"  Evenin',  ma'am,"  began  the  mountaineer.  "  I'm 
Good  Anse  Talbott.  I  reckon  mebby  ye've  heered  tell 
of  me.  This  lady  is  Miss  Holland  from  down  below. 
I  'lowed  Flech  mout  let  us  tarry  hyar  till  sun-up." 

"  I  reckon  he  mout  —  ef  he  war  hyar,  though  we 
don't  foller  takin'  in  strangers,"  was  the  dubious  re- 
ply ;  "  but  he  hain't  hyar." 

"Where  air  he  at?" 

"  Don't  know.  Didn't  ye  see  him  down  the  road  as 
ye  rid  along?  " 

"  Wall,  now  — "  drawled  the  missionary,  "  I  hain't 
skeercely  as  well  acquainted  hyarabouts  as  further  up 
Tribulation.  What  manner  o'  lookin'  man  air  he?  " 

"  He  don't  look  like  nothin'  much,"  replied  his  wife 
morosely.  "  He's  jest  an  ornery-lookin'  old  man." 

"  Whither  did  he  sot  out  ter  go  when  he  left  hyar?  " 

The  woman  shook  her  head,  then  a  grim  flash  of 
latent  wrath  broke  in  her  eyes. 

"  I'll  jest  let  ye  hev  the  truth,  stranger.  Some  triflin* 
fellers  done  sa'ntered  past  hyar  with  a  jug  of  licker, 
an'  thet  fool  Fletch  hes  jest  done  follered  'em  off. 
Thet's  all  thar  is  to  hit  an'  he  hain't  got  no  license 
ter  ack  thetaway  nuther.  I  reckon  by  now  he's  a-layin* 
drunk  somewhars." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  through  which 
drifted  the  distant  tinkle  of  cowbells  down  the  creek. 
Beyond  the  crests  lingered  only  a  lemon  afterglow  as 
relict  of  the  dead  day.  The  brown,  colorless  man 
astride  his  mule  sat  stupidly  looking  down  at  the  brown 
colorless  woman  across  the  stile.  The  waiting  girl 


28  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

heard  the  preacher  surmising  that  "  mebby  he'd  better 
sot  out  in  s'arch  of  Fletch."  The  words  seemed  to  come 
from  a  great  distance  and  her  head  swam  giddily. 
Then  overcome  with  disgust  and  weariness,  Juanita 
Holland  saw  the  afterglow  turn  slowly  to  pale  gray 
and  then  to  black  shot  through  with  orange  spots. 
She  grew  suddenly  indifferent  to  the  situation.  She 
swayed  in  her  saddle  and  slipped  limply  to  the  ground. 
The  young  woman  who  had  come  to  conquer  the  moun- 
tains and  carry  a  torch  of  enlightenment  to  their 
illiteracy,  had  fainted  from  heartsickness  and  weari- 
ness at  the  threshold  of  her  invasion. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  weariness  which  caused  the  fainting  spell 
must  hate  lengthened  its  duration,  for  when 
Juanita's  lashes  flickered  upward  again  and  her 
brain  came  gropingly  back  to  consciousness  she  was 
no  longer  out  by  the  stile.  Yet  there  could  not  have 
been  a  great  interval  either  for  now  as  the  girl  looked 
up  the  parallelogram  of  a  door  frame  showed  that 
though  the  twilight  was  dying  the  twilight's  ghost 
still  lingered.  At  the  top  of  the  opening  was  yet  a 
streak  of  afterglow,  paling  and  graying,  and  over  it 
hung  a  single,  diamond-clear  star. 

She  noticed  that  detail  before  she  became  aware  of 
nearer  things.  Gradually  consciousness  ceased  to  be 
fragmentary.  She  was  lying  in  the  smothering  soft- 
ness of  a  feather  bed.  On  her  palate  and  tongue  lin- 
gered an  unfamiliar,  sweetish  taste,  while  through  her 
veins  she  felt  the  coursing  of  a  warm  glow.  Over  her 
stood  the  woman  who  had  been  across  the  stile  when 
she  fainted.  Her  attitude  was  anxiously  watchful. 
In  one  hand  she  held  a  stone  jug,  and  in  the  other  a 
gourd  dipper.  So  that  accounted  for  the  taste  and  the 
glow,  and  as  Juanita  took  in  the  circumstance  she 
heard  the  high  nasal  voice,  pitched  none  the  less  in  a 
tone  of  kindly  reassurance. 

"  Ye'll  be  spry  as  a  squirrel  in  a  leetle  spell,  honey. 

Don't  fret  yoreself  none.     Ye  war  jest  plumb  tuckered 

90 


80  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

out  an'  ye  swooned.  I've  been  a  rubbin'  yore  hands 
an'  a  pourin'  a  little  white  licker  down  yore  throat. 
Don't  worrit  yoreself  none.  We're  pore  folks  an'  we 
hain't  got  much,  but  I  reckon  we  kin  mek  out  ter  en- 
joy ye  somehow." 

The  four  walls  of  the  cabin  might  have  been  the 
rocky  confines  of  a  mountain  cavern,  so  completely  did 
they  merge  into  the  impalpable  and  sooty  murk  that 
hung  between  them,  obliterating  all  remoter  outline. 
Only  things  in  a  narrow  circle  grew  visible  and  at  the 
center  of  this  lighted  area  was  the  slender  figure  of  a 
girl,  holding  up  a  lard  taper,  whose  radius  of  light  was 
yellow  and  flickering. 

The  girl  on  the  bed  smiled  and  murmured  her  thanks, 
and  as  the  other  girl,  younger  and  unspeakably  shy, 
felt  the  eyes  of  the  strange  woman  from  the  great  un- 
known world  upon  her,  her  own  dark  lashes  fell  timidly 
and  the  hand  that  held  the  taper  trembled,  while  into 
her  cheeks  crept  a  carmine  self-consciousness.  She  was 
looking  at  the  most  beautiful  creature  she  had  ever 
seen,  and  the  diffidence  with  which  her  isolated  little 
life  had  been  always  fettered  grew  as  poignant  as 
though  she  were  in  the  presence  of  some  rare  and  su- 
perior being.  And  Juanita,  for  her  part,  felt  in  her 
veins  a  new  and  subtler  glow  than  that  which  the  moon- 
shine whiskey  had  quickened.  The  men  and  women 
of  the  hills  had  made  her  heart-sick  with  their  stolid 
and  animal-like  coarseness.  Now  she  saw  a  slender 
figure  in  which  the  lines  were  yet  transitory  between 
the  straightness  of  childhood  and  the  budding  curves 
of  womanhood.  She  saw  a  well-borne  head  surmounted 
by  a  mass  of  tangled  hair  which  the  taper  lighted  into 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  81 

an  aureole  about  a  face  delicately  beautiful.  The  lips 
were  poppy-red  and  the  eyes  were  as  blue  as  her  own, 
while  below  the  ragged  hem  of  the  short  calico  skirt 
bare  and  slender  feet  twisted  with  the  restless  shyness 
of  a  fawn's. 

It  was  to  such  children  of  the  hills  as  this  that 
Juanita  Holland  was  to  bring  the  new  teachings.  But 
even  as  she  smiled,  the  child,  for  she  seemed  to  be  only 
fifteen  or  sixteen,  surrendered  to  her  shyness  and 
thrusting  the  taper  into  her  mother's  hand,  shrunk  out 
of  sight  in  some  shadowed  corner  of  the  place. 

Then  Juanita's  eyes  occupied  themselves  with  what 
fragmentary  details  the  faint  light  revealed.  There 
was  something  like  a  rough  stone  grotto  which  she 
knew  to  be  the  fireplace.  The  barrel  of  a  rifle  caught 
the  weak  flare  and  glittered.  The  uncarpeted  floor  of 
rude  puncheon  slabs  was  a  thing  of  gaping  cracks,  and 
overhead  there  was  a  vague  feeling  of  low  rafters  from 
which  hung  strings  of  ancient  and  shriveled  peppers 
and  a  few  crinkled  "  hands  "  of  "  natural  leaf."  But 
as  her  senses  wakened  she  was  most  conscious  of  a 
reek  such  as  that  which  clings  about  a  shed  where  hams 
are  cured;  the  reek  of  a  windowless  house  in  which 
the  chimney  has  smoked  until  the  timbers  are  dark- 
ened. 

"  Dawn,"  commanded  the  woman,  "  take  yore  foot 
in  yore  hand  an'  light  out  ter  ther  barn  an'  see  ef  ye 
kin  find  some  aigs."  Then  as  Juanita  watched  the 
door  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  slight  figure  that  van- 
ished with  the  same  quick  noiselessness  as  that  with 
which  a  beaver  slips  into  water. 

"  I  reckon  ye  kin  jest  lay  thar  a  spell,"  apologized 


33  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  woman,  "  whilst  I  goes  out  an'  see  what  victuals  I 
kin  skeer  up." 

Left  alone,  the  girl  from  Philadelphia  ran  over  the 
events  of  the  day  and  seemed  to  smother  under  a  weight 
of  squalor  and  foreboding.  The  taper  had  gone  with 
the  hostess  and  even  the  door  darkened  with  the  thick- 
ening of  twilight.  Once  or  twice  she  heard  the  sur- 
reptitious fall  of  a  cautious  bare  foot,  and  though  at 
first  she  could  see  nothing  she  knew  that  one  of  the 
children  of  the  household  had  crept  in  to  lie  fascinatedly 
gazing  toward  her  from  one  of  the  other  beds.  As  her 
eyes  slowly  accustomed  themselves  to  the  darkness  un- 
til their  widening  pupils  could  recognize  degrees  of 
pitchiness  —  separating  comparative  from  superla- 
tive —  she  could  make  them  out,  in  strange  immovable 
little  shapes  of  black.  Even  in  their  idle  curiosity 
there  was  that  note  which  had  all  day  been  growing  to 
an  obsession  with  her;  the  note  which  strikes  the 
stranger  in  the  hills,  of  never  ending  and  grim  sus- 
pense; of  being  constantly  watched  and  followed  by 
unseen  eyes. 

At  length  from  the  road  came  loud  shouts  of  drunken 
laughter  broken  by  the  evident  remonstrances  of  a  com- 
panion who  sought  to  enjoin  quiet,  and  by  these  tokens 
the  "  furrin  "  woman  knew  that  the  lord  of  the  squalid 
manor  was  returning,  and  that  he  was  coming  under 
convoy.  She  shrunk  from  an  immediate  meeting  with 
Fletch  McNash  whose  ribald  laughter  proclaimed  his 
condition,  but  if  she  went  out  by  the  only  door  she 
knew,  she  would  have  to  confront  him,  so  she  lay  still, 
shrinking  with  distaste  as  she  heard  her  hostess  berat- 
ing the  delinquent  consort,  and  heard  also  the  inter jec- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  88 

tions  of  another  voice  whose  words  she  could  not  catch, 
so  low  pitched  and  quiet  was  the  manner  of  their  utter- 
ance. 

Fletch  had  been  deposited  in  one  of  the  split-bottom 
chairs  about  the  broken  mill-stone  which  served  in  lieu 
of  a  doorstep,  and  palpably  his  drink  had  left  him 
mellow  and  genial,  beyond  vulnerability  to  badgering. 

"  I  jest  went  over  thar  ter  borry  a  hoe,"  he  excul- 
pated. "  An'  I  met  up  with  some  fellers  thet  wouldn't 
hardly  leave  me  go.  Thar  was  all  manner  of  free 
licker.  They  had  white  licker  an'  bottled-in-bond 
licker  an'  none  of  hit  didn't  cost  nothin'.  Them  fellers 
jest  wouldn't  hardly  suffer  me  ter  come  away." 

"  An'  whilest  ye  war  a-soakin'  up  thet  thar  free 
licker  them  potater  sets  was  a-dryin'  up,  waitin'  ter  be 
sot  out,"  came  the  ironical  wifely  reminder. 

"  I  knows  thet.  I  hadn't  hardly  ought  ter  of  did 
hit  —  but  them  fellers  they  j  est  wouldn't  hardly  suffer 
me  ter  leave  thar." 

"  Well,"  the  woman's  voice  was  contemptuous,  "  I 
jest  took  them  pertater  sets  an'  flung  'em  in  ther  crick. 
Next  time  mebby  ye'll  know  better." 

61  Aw,  pshaw !  ole  woman,"  Fletch's  voice  was  un- 
ruffled, "  ye  didn't  do  no  sich  of  a  fool  thing.  Ye're 
jest  a-lyin'." 

Between  the  strident  voices,  came  every  now  and 
then  the  softly  modulated  tones  of  the  stranger  whose 
words  Juanita  lost.  Yet  somehow  whenever  she  heard 
their  cadence,  she  felt  soothed,  and  after  each  of  these 
utterances  the  woman  outside  also  spoke  in  softer 
tones. 

Whoever  the  stranger  was,  he  carried  in  his  voice 


34  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

a  reassuring  quality,  so  that  without  having  seen  him 
the  girl  felt  that  in  his  presence  there  was  an  element 
of  strength  and  safeguarding. 

At  last  from  one  of  the  beds  she  heard  a  scuffling 
sound  and  a  moment  later  a  childish  form  opened  a 
door  at  the  back  of  the  cabin  and  slipped  out  into  the 
darkness. 

That  revealed  an  avenue  of  escape.  Juanita  had 
not  known  that  these  windowless  cabins  are  usually  sup- 
plied with  two  doors  and  that  the  one  into  which  the 
wind  does  not  drive  stands  open  for  light  on  winter 
days.  Now  she,  too,  rose  noiselessly  and  went  out  of 
the  close  and  musty  room.  It  was  quite  dark  out 
there  and  she  could  feel,  rather  than  see  the  densely 
foliaged  side  of  the  mountain  that  loomed  upward  at 
her  back. 

Off  to  one  side  she  could  make  out,  by  virtue  of  lan- 
tern-glow between  its  cracks,  the  barn,  where  some  one 
was  still  busy  with  the  stock. 

All  about  her  was  impenetrable  murk  and  she  sank 
down  on  a  large  rock  which  she  found  in  her  path. 
She  was  wrapped  in  the  depressing  contemplation  of 
the  task  which  lay  ahead  of  her,  and  its  stark  contrast 
with  all  which  lay  behind  her,  so  that,  in  her  brooding, 
she  lost  account  of  time.  The  voices  at  the  front 
seemed  now  to  have  died  into  the  same  universal  si- 
lence which  held  the  mountains  throttled,  and  the  night 
chorus  had  not  yet  opened.  Evidently  no  one  had 
missed  her  from  the  cabin.  At  last  she  heard  a  voice 
sing  out  from  the  stile. 

"  I'm  Jim  White,  an'  I'm  a-comin'  in." 

A  thick  welcome  from  Fletch  McNash  followed  and 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  «          35 

then  again  silence  settled  except  for  the  weird  strain 
of  a  banjo  which  one  of  the  children  was  thrumming 
inside.  The  banjo  carried  to  the  Eastern  girl's  heart 
a  sense  of  lost  soul  isolation  and  eerie  loneliness,  for 
the  fingers  that  nursed  its  strings  were  slowly  picking 
out  one  of  those  mournful  ballads  which  have  filtered 
down  from  the  Scotland  of  Mary  Stuart,  and  which 
have  survived  nowhere  else  than  in  this  desolate  strong- 
hold of  the  dead  ages. 

After  a  while  as  she  sat  there  on  her  rock,  with  her 
chin  disconsolately  in  her  hand,  and  her  elbows  on  her 
knees,  Juanita  became  conscious  of  footsteps  and  knew 
that  some  one  was  coming  toward  her.  Whoever  the 
person  or  persons  were  the  approach  was  very  quiet 
and  at  first  she  heard  only  the  light  crackle  of  chips 
and  twigs  as  they  passed  the  chopping  block  in  the 
woodpile,  but  in  another  moment  she  caught  the  calm 
voice  which  had  already  impressed  her;  the  voice  of 
the  stranger  who  had  brought  home  the  half-helpless 
house-holder. 

"  I  reckon  we're  out  of  earshot  now.  I  reckon  we 
kin  hev  speech  here,  but  heed  your  voice  an'  talk  low." 

In  the  face  of  such  a  preface  the  girl  shrank  back 
with  fresh  panic.  She  had  no  wish  to  overhear  private 
conversation.  She  could  think  of  nothing  she  dreaded 
more  than  to  be  the  recipient  of  any  of  the  dark  secrets 
with  which  these  hills  seemed  to  be  honey-combed.  If 
either  one  of  the  two  men  who  were  only  shadows 
bulked  a  little  blacker  than  the  general  darkness, 
should  light  a  pipe,  she  would  stand  forth  revealed  with 
all  the  guilty  seeming  of  an  eavesdropper. 

She  huddled  back  against  the  rock  and  cast  an  anx- 


36  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

ious  glance  about  her  for  a  way  to  escape.  Behind  lay 
the  mountain  wall  with  its  jungle-like  growth,  where 
her  feet  would  sound  an  alarm  of  rustling  branches 
and  disturbed  deadwood.  But  the  men  were  strolling 
near  her  and  to  try  to  reach  the  house  would  require 
crossing  their  path. 

Then  the  second  shadow  spoke  and  its  voice  carried, 
beside  the  nasal  shrillness  so  common  to  the  hills,  the 
tenseness  of  suppressed  excitement. 

"Thar's  liable  ter  be  hell  ter-night." 

The  girl  thought  that  the  quiet  stranger  laughed, 
though  of  that  she  could  not  be  certain. 

"  I  reckon  ye  mean  concernin'  Cal  Douglas  ?  " 

"  Thet's  hit,  whin  I  rid  outen  Peril  this  a'ternoon 
ther  Jury  hed  done  took  ther  case  an'  everybody  'lowed 
they'd  find  a  verdict  afore  sundown." 

"  I  reckon,"  the  taller  of  the  two  men  answered 
slowly,  and  into  his  softly  modulated  voice  crept  some- 
thing of  flinty  finality.  "  I  reckon  I  can  tell  ye  what 
that  verdict's  goin'  to  be.  Cal  will  come  clear." 

"  Thet  hain't  ther  p'int,"  urged  the  messenger  ex- 
citedly. "  Thet  hain't  why  I've  rid  over  hyar  like  a 
bat  outen  hell  ter  cotch  up  with  ye.  I  was  aimin'  ter 
fetch  word  over  ter  ther  dance,  but  es  I  come  by  hyar, 
I  seen  yore  boss  hitched  out  thar  in  ther  road  so  I  lit 
an'  come  in.  ...  I  reckon  ye  knows  thet  Co'te  an' 
thet  Jury.  Thet's  yore  business,  but  thet  hain't  all." 

"Well,  what's  the  balance  of  it?  Talk  out.  What 
are  ye  aimin'  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  met  up  with  a  feller  in  Job  Heath's  blind  tiger 
jest  outside  Peril.  He'd  drunk  a  lot  of  licker  an'  he 
got  ter  talking  mighty  loose-tongued  an'  free."  The 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  87 

girl  sickened  a  little  as  she  felt  that  her  fears  were 
being  realized,  and  one  hand  went  involuntarily  up  to 
her  breast  and  stayed  there.  The  young  man  with 
the  shrill  voice  talked  on  impetuously. 

"  Ever  sence  the  trial  of  Cal  Douglas  started  good, 
old  Milt  McBriar  hain't  been  actin'  like  his-self.  Him 
an'  Breck  Havey's  been  stoppin'  at  ther  same  hotel 
in  Peril  an'  yit  Milt  hain't  'peared  ter  be  a-bearin'  no 
grudge  whatsoever.  When  ther  Jury  was  med  up,  Milt 
didn't  seek  ter  challenge  fellers  thet  everybody  knowed 
was  friends  of  Cal's.  Milt  didn't  even  seek  ter  raise 
no  hell  when  ther  Jedge  ruled  favorable  ter  Cal  right 
along.  This  feller  what  I  talked  ter,  'lowed  thet  Milt 
didn't  Teeer  ef  Cal  came  cl'ar." 

The  listening  man  once  more  answered  with  a  quiet 
laugh.  "  Do  ye  'low  that  that  old  rattlesnake,  Milt 
McBriar,  aims  to  stand  by  an'  not  try  ter  hang  or  peni- 
tentiary kin  of  mine  for  killin'  kin  of  his  ?  "  he  inquired 
almost  softly. 

"  Thet's  just  hit,"  the  answer  came  quickly  and  ex- 
citedly. "  This  feller  'lowed  thet  old  Milt  aimed  ter 
show  ther  world  thet  he  couldn't  git  no  jestice  in  a  Co'te 
thet  b'longed  ter  Anse  Havey,  an'  then  he  aimed  ter 
'tend  ter  his  own  jestice  fer  hisself.  He  'lows  ter  her 
hit  home-made." 


CHAPTER  IV 

*  *  T_T  0  W  is  he  aimin'  to  fix  it  ?  "     The  question  was 

XT  A    a  bit  contemptuous. 

"  They  figger  thet  when  Cal  comes  cl'ar, 
he'll  ride  lickety-split,  with  a  bunch  of  Havey  boys  over 
hyar  ter  this  dance  what's  a-goin'  forward  at  ther  p'int. 
Some  of  Milt's  fellers  aims  ter  slip  over  thar,  too,  an* 
while  Cal's  celebratin'  they  aims  ter  git  him  ter- 
night." 

"  Do  they?  "  The  taller  man's  voice  was  velvety. 
"  Well,  go  on.  What  else?  " 

"  They  aims  ter  tell  ther  world  thet  they  let  thel 
law  take  hit's  co'se  fust,  but  thet  Bad  Anse  Havey 
makes  a  mockery  of  ther  law.  This  feller  I  talked  with 
was  j  est  a  boy  an'  ther  licker  hed  made  him  brag  mighty 
heedless.  I  let  on  like  I  was  State's  evidence,  same  es 
him  an'  he  told  me  everything  he  knew.  He  'lowed 
thet  the  Haveys  were  aimin'  ter  make  this  dance  a  big 
celebration  —  an5  thet  Old  Milt  aimed  ter  give  'em 
somethin'  ter  celebrate  right  an'  proper." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  and  then  the  quiet 
voice  commented  ironically :  "  My  God,  them  fellers 
lay  a  heap  of  deviltry  up  against  Bad  Anse,  don't 
they?" 

After  a  moment  of  silence,  through  which  Juanita 
Holland  was  painfully  conscious  of  the  quick  beat  of 

her  own  heart,  she  heard  again  the  unexcited  voice  of 

38 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  39 

the  tall  stranger.  Now  it  was  the  capable  voice  of  a 
general  officer  giving  commands. 

"  Did  ye  give  warnin'  in  Peril  ?  " 

"  No  —  I  couldn't  get  ter  speak  with  Cal.  He  was 
in  co'te  —  and  seein'  as  how  they  didn't  figger  on  raisin' 
no  hell  twell  they  git  over  hyar  —  I  didn't  turn  back- 
wards. I  come  straight  through.  I  'lowed  this  was 
ther  place  ter  fix  things  up." 

"  You  ride  over  to  the  dancin'  party.  Get  the  older 
fellers  together.  .  .  .  Keep  the  boys  quiet  an5  sober 
.  .  .  cold  sober.  Watch  thet  old  fool,  Bob  McGreeger. 
Don't  spread  these  tidings  till  I  get  there.  ...  If  Cal 
comes  over  there  tell  him  to  keep  outen  sight.  Nothin' 
won't  break  loose  before  midnight.  .  .  .  That's  my  or- 
ders. By  God  Almighty,  I  aim  to  have  peace  here- 
about just  now."  The  speaker's  voice  broke  off  and 
the  two  men  passed  out  of  sight  around  the  corner  of 
the  house. 

The  girl  rose  and  made  her  way  unsteadily  to  the 
back  door  and  let  herself  in.  She  threw  herself  on  the 
bed  and  lay  there  rapidly  thinking.  It  was  obvious 
that  her  absence  had  not  been  commented  upon.  A  few 
minutes  later  she  heard  the  voice  of  Mrs.  McNash  sing- 
ing out,  "  You  folks  kin  all  come  in  an'  eat,"  and  found 
herself,  outwardly  calm,  making  her  way  around  to  the 
shed  addition  which  served  jointly  as  kitchen  and  din- 
ing-room. 

When  she  entered  the  place  Fletch  McNash  was  al- 
ready seated  and  sagged  over  his  plate  with  the  stupid 
inertia  of  dulled  senses.  Gone  now  was  his  hilarity 
and  in  its  place  was  come  the  sleepy  heaviness  of  re- 
action. Even  the  sight  of  the  "  fotched-on  woman  " 


40  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

elicited  from  him  only  a  thickly  muttered  and  incoher- 
ent'comment. 

At  the  center  of  the  miserable  lean-to  stood  a  home- 
made table  covered  with  red  oil-cloth  and  nondescript 
crockery.  Light  came  from  the  roaring  blaze  of  the 
open  hearth  over  which  with  pioneer  make-shift  the 
cookery  had  gone  forward.  In  the  yellow  and  ver- 
milion flare  of  the  logs,  the  walls  appeared  to  advance 
and  recede  in  tune  to  the  upleapings  of  flame.  Hud- 
dling as  far  into  the  shadow  of  a  corner  as  possible  sat 
the  girl,  Dawn,  like  a  pink  laurel-blossom  in  a  sooty 
place.  Above  her  head  hung  several  "  sides  of  meat," 
and  at  her  feet  was  a  pile  of  potatoes  and  onions. 

But  Juanita  dismissed  with  a  quick  view  those  figures 
she  had  seen  before.  To  Fletch  McNash  she  accorded 
a  glance  of  veiled  disgust.  She  found  herself  unac- 
countably eager  to  see  the  tall  stranger  whose  voice 
had  reassured  her ;  who  had  appeared  first  as  the  Samar- 
itan bringing  home  the  helpless ;  then  as  the  man  whose 
words  gained  prompt  obedience  —  and  finally  as  the 
self-declared  advocate  of  peace. 

He  was  standing,  as  she  entered,  a  little  back  from 
the  hearth,  with  the  detached  air  of  one  who  drops  into 
the  background  or  comes  to  the  fore  with  equal  readi- 
ness. She  found  that  in  appearance  as  in  voice  he 
bore  a  rough  sort  of  impressiveness  about  him.  In  the 
brighter  light  stood  the  messenger,  a  gaunt  youth  in 
whose  wild,  sharp  features  lurked  cunning,  cruelty  and 
endurance.  But  the  other  man,  who  stood  a  head 
taller,  fell  into  a  pose  of  indolent  ease  which  might  wake 
instantly  into  power. 

On  his  clear-cut,  rather  lean  face  was  a  calm  which 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  41 

seemed  remote  from  even  the  memory  of  excitement. 
From  a  breadth  of  shoulder  he  tapered  wedge-like  to  the 
waist  and  was  knit  with  none  of  the  shambling  loose- 
ness that  Juanita  had  come  to  associate  with  the  Cum- 
berland type.  In  clothing  he  was  much  like  the  rest, 
except  that  in  a  rather  indefinable  way  he  escaped  their 
seeming  of  slouchiness.  She  wondered  where  she  had 
seen  some  portrait  that  wore  as  his  face  did  roughness 
combined  with  dignity:  crudeness  with  gentleness. 

It  was  a  face  strongly  and  ruggedly  chiseled,  but 
so  dominated  by  unfaltering,  gray  eyes  that  one  was 
apt  to  forget  all  else,  and  carry  away  only  a  memory 
of  dark  hair  —  and  those  eyes.  Now  as  the  girl  met 
their  steady  gaze,  her  own  fell  before  it,  yet  she  had 
caught  a  feeling  that  although  she  had  never  looked 
into  such  cool  pupils  there  lay  back  of  them  a  strong 
impression  of  banked  and  sleeping  fires. 

"  No  I  kain't  hardly  tarry,"  she  heard  the  messenger 
declaring  in  his  nasal,  high-pitched  voice.  "  I  reckon 
I've  got  ter  be  gone." 

As  Juanita  made  her  way  to  a  chair  at  the  rough 
table  the  woman  was  saying  in  that  old  idiom  of  the 
hills,  which  springs  from  days  when  matches  were  un- 
known and  dead  fires  must  needs  be  rekindled  from  a 
neighbor's  hearth,  "  What's  yore  tormentin'  haste,  Jim  ? 
Ye  acts  like  ye'd  done  come  ter  borry  fire." 

"  I'm  a  leetle-bit  oneasy,"  interposed  the  tall  man 
quietly,  "  lest  those  boys  over  at  the  dance  might  git 
quarrelsome  with  licker,  and  I  want  Jim  to  ride  over 
an'  keep  an'  eye  on  'em  till  I  git  there.  A  dancin'  party 
ought  rightly  to  be  peaceable." 

Then  as   they  sat  at  table  and  the  girl  struggled 


42  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

with  her  discomfiture  over  each  unclean  detail  of  the 
food,  she  raised  her  eyes  from  time  to  time,  always  to 
encounter  upon  her  the  steady,  appraising  gaze  of  the 
dark  stranger.  In  the  desultory  conversation  of  the 
table  he  took  no  part,  but  sat  as  taciturn  and  as 
wrapped  about  with  his  own  thoughts  as  some  warrior 
of  the  Indians  from  whom  his  forefathers  had  wrested 
these  hills  and  from  whom  they  had,  to  their  shame, 
learned  their  ethics  of  warfare. 

When  they  had  finished,  the  stranger  drew  Fletch, 
now  somewhat  sobered  by  his  meal,  aside  and  the  other 
men  retired  to  the  chairs  in  the  door-yard.  Then  the 
girl  from  the  East  again  slipped  away  and  took  up  her 
solitary  place  on  the  top  of  the  stile,  where  she  sat 
thinking.  The  group  about  the  door  seemed  a  long 
way  off  as  their  droning  voices  drifted  to  her  in  the 
dark. 

Slowly  the  smothering  blackness  of  the  barriers  be- 
gan to  lighten.  Beyond  the  eastern  crests  showed 
the  pale  mistiness  of  silver  which  was  precursor  to  the 
'moon.  Stars  that  gleamed  between  the  peaks  like 
diamond  splinters  grew  less  intensely  clear.  Then  the 
flat  and  pitchy  curtain  of  night  took  faint  form.  The 
edge  of  the  moon  peeped  stealthily  over  the  ridge  and 
after  that  the  moon  itself  began  to  soar  and  work  magic 
changes.  The  black  void  out  in  front  became  a  silvery 
little  valley  through  which  the  soft  mirroring  ribbon 
of  Tribulation  caught  and  turned  top-down  the  lacelike 
fringe  of  the  timber.  Great  shapeless  masses  modeled 
themselves  into  clear-cut  monuments  of  cobalt.  Giant 
plumes  of  pines  and  patterns  of  oak  swam  into  sight 
and  the  hollows  were  dream-wrapped  pools  of  softened 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  4£ 

moon-mist.  Then  as  though  in  answer  to  the  miracle 
that  had  transformed  the  hopeless  death  of  the  night 
into  the  tender  nocturne  of  grays  and  silvers  and  dream- 
blues,  there  boomed  from  the  edges  of  the  creek  the 
chorus  of  the  full-throated  frogs  and  from  behind  in 
wooded  slopes  floated  that  plaintive  note  which,  once 
known,  leaves  the  ache  of  an  unfulfilled  desire  over  all 
countries  where  it  does  not  sound;  the  call  of  the  whip- 
poorwill. 

Under  these  influences  Juanita  Holland  was  feeling 
unspeakably  soothed.  The  sick  squalor  and  lawless- 
ness of  the  hills  seemed,  for  the  moment,  less  important 
than  their  serene  beauty.  After  all  where  Nature 
smiled  like  this,  where  from  heavens  and  forests  came 
such  a  caress  and  benediction  as  moon-mist  and  star- 
light were  pouring  over  her,  things  could  not  be  irre- 
trievably bad. 

There  were  blossom  girls  like  little  Dawn  to  be  won 
away  from  weed-wildness  and  taught.  There  were 
young  men  like  the  eagle-eyed  stranger  who  raised  their 
voices  to  declare  as  she  had  heard  him  declare,  "  I  aim 
to  have  peace  hyarabouts."  Somehow  she  felt  that 
what  that  voice  announced,  that  man  would  do. 

At  last  she  was  conscious  of  a  presence  besides  her 
own,  as  of  some  one  standing  silently  at  her  back. 

Rather  nervously  she  turned  her  head  and  there  with 
one  foot  on  the  lower  step  of  the  stile  stood  the  young 
stranger  himself.  Once  more  their  eyes  met  and  with 
a  little  start  she  dropped  her  own.  She  was  not  one 
who  ordinarily  failed  to  sustain  any  glance,  however 
direct,  and  a  sense  of  challenge  usually  brought  to  her 
chin  that  upward  tilt  and  to  her  pupils  that  faint  flash 


44  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

under  which  the  other  eyes  fell  away.  Yet  somehow 
now,  though  she  felt  a  half-mocking  challenge  and  a 
premonition  of  personal  duel  in  his  gaze,  it  was  she  who 
surrendered. 

She  saw  his  horse,  hitched  outside,  raise  its  head  and 
whinny  as  though  in  welcome  to  its  master,  and  then 
she  looked  back,  and  the  mountaineer's  steady  apprais- 
ing gaze  was  still  fixed  on  her  face,  seeming  to  penetrate 
her  thoughts. 

"  I  kinder  hate  to  bother  ye,  ma'am,"  said  the  even 
voice,  "  but  I  can't  hardly  get  acrost  thet  stile  whilst 
ye're  settin'  on  it." 

There  was  no  note  of  badinage  or  levity  in  his  voice 
and  his  clear-drawn  features  under  the  moonlight  were 
entirely  serious. 

Juanita  rose.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  hastily 
as  she  went  down  the  stile  on  the  far  side. 

"  Thet's  all  right,  ma'am,"  replied  the  man  easily, 
still  with  a  serious  dignity  as  he,  too,  crossed  to  the 
road. 

While  he  was  untying  the  knot  in  his  bridle  rein  the 
girl  stood  watching  him.  In  the  easy  indolence  of  his 
movements  was  the  rippling  quality  that  suggested  the 
leopard's  frictionless  strength.  Inside,  when  she  had 
seen  him  standing  by  the  hearth,  she  had  been  impressed, 
but  his  eyes  had  so  fascinated  her  that  the  rest  of  her 
scrutiny  had  been  insufficient  and  unsatisfactory.  Now 
in  the  moonlight  and  the  breeze  she  felt  cooler,  steadier, 
more  analytical. 

Even  the  raw-looking  messenger  had  in  an  inferior 
way  struck  her  with  a  note  of  the  individual,  and  she 
had  satisfied  herself  with  the  reflection  that  both  these 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  45 

men  differed  from  all  the  men  of  her  own  world  because 
her  acquaintances  had  gone  under  the  leveling  and  soft- 
ening influences  of  the  conventional.  They  were 
smoother  and  more  alike  while  these  more  primitive 
men  were  types,  each  standing  forth  with  something  of 
the  sternness  of  their  native  crags. 

The  very  quality  that  gave  this  young  stranger 
his  picturesqueness  and  stamped  him  as  vital  and  dy- 
namic in  his  manhood,  sprang  from  that  wild  rough- 
ness which  he  shared  with  his  eagles  and  Dawn  shared 
with  her  weedlike  flowers.  And  yet  it  was  somehow 
as  though  the  man,  whose  voice  was  so  calm,  whose 
movements  so  quiet,  whose  gaze  so  un-arrogant,  were 
crying  out  in  a  clarion  challenge  with  every  breath,  "  I 
am  a  man ! " 

It  was  as  unnecessary  for  him  to  breathe  a  syllable 
or  strike  an  attitude  to  drive  that  declaration  home  as 
it  would  be  for  a  dreadnought  to  fire  a  broadside  in  an- 
nouncement of  the  purpose  for  which  it  had  been 
launched. 

The  stranger's  square-blocked  face  was  smooth-shaven 
and  his  clothes,  in  their  careless  roughness,  seemed  less 
garments  than  an  emphasis  for  the  power  and  swiftness 
of  the  muscles  beneath  them.  She  thought  of  them  less 
as  clothes  than  as  plumage  —  an  eagle's  plumage. 

Instead  of  brogans  tan  boots  were  laced  half  way  to 
the  knee  and  above  them  the  trousers  bulged  squarely 
like  the  feathers  that  break  off  close  above  an  eagle's 
talons.  His  throat  and  hands  were  of  the  clear  smooth- 
ness and  clean  hardness  of  bronze. 

Yet  brow  and  lips  and  nostrils  seemed  rather  chiseled 
than  molded,  with  the  little  edges  and  angles  left,  so 


46  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

that  the  contour  suggested  granite  while  the  texture 
seemed  metal. 

Dominating  all  the  rest,  the  eyes,  cool,  but  sentient 
with  latent  passion  and  power,  lighted  from  within 
rather  than  from  without,  were  always  the  first  and  last 
things  that  one  saw. 

Suddenly  she  wondered  if  in  him  she  might  not  find 
an  ally.  She  felt  very  lonely.  To  have  counsel  with 
some  one  in  these  hills  less  stupidly  phlegmatic  than 
Good  Anse  Talbott  would  bring  comfort  and  reassur- 
ance to  her  heart.  She  must  cope  with  the  powerful 
chicane  and  resourcefulness  of  Bad  Anse  Havey,  him 
of  the  untamed  ferocity  and  cold  cruelty  and  subtle 
intelligence.  If  some  native  son  could  share  even  a 
little  of  her  viewN-point  she  would  find  in  him  a  tower 
of  strength. 

She  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  how  her  loneliness 
called  out  for  comprehension  and  friendship,  yet  she 
did  not  know  how  to  start.  Then  while  she  stood  there 
still  hesitant,  still  very  beautiful  and  slim  and  wraith- 
like  under  the  moon,  he  spoke  in  his  reassuring  steadi- 
ness of  voice. 

Perhaps  he  had  yielded  to  the  unspoken  appeal  of 
the  deep  rangeful  eyes  that  were  always  blue,  yet  never 
twice  the  same  blue,  and  the  sweetly  sensitive  lips  so 
tantalizingly  charming,  because  they  were  fashioned  for 
smiles  and  were  now  drooping  instead.  Perhaps  the 
wild  masculine  in  him  responded  to  the  pliant  curves 
that  spoke  of  strength  and  stamina  in  a  figure  so  lithely 
•lender. 

"  I  reckon,"  he  said,  "  you  find  it  right  different  from 
down  below,  don't  you?  " 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  47 

She  nodded.  "  But  it's  very  beautiful,"  she  added  as 
she  swept  her  hand  about  in  a  gesture  of  admiration. 

It  was  he  who  nodded  at  that,  very  gravely,  and  al- 
most reverently,  though  at  the  next  moment  his  laugh 
was  short  and  almost  ironical. 

"  I  reckon  God  never  fashioned  anything  better  — 
nor  worse,"  he  told  her.  "  When  you've  breathed  it  an' 
seen  it  an'  lived  it,  no  other  place  is  fit  to  dwell  in,  an' 
yet  sometimes  I  'low  that  God  didn't  mean  it  to  be  the 
habitation  of  men  an'  women.  It's  cut  out  for  eagles 
an'  hawks  an'  wild  things.  It  belongs  to  the  winds  an' 
storms.  It  puts  fire  into  veins  meant  for  blood,  an'  the 
only  crop  it  raises  much  is  hell." 

"  You  —  you've  been  out  in  the  other  world  —  down 
below  ?  "  she  questioned. 

"  Yes,  but  I  couldn't  stay  down  there.  I  couldn't 
breathe  hardly.  I  sultered  an'  sickened  —  an'  I  came 
back." 

She  turned  to  him  impulsively. 

"  I  don't  know  who  you  are,"  she  began  hurriedly, 
"  but  I  know  that  you  brought  this  man  home  when 
he  was  not  in  a  condition  to  come  alone.  I  know  that 
you  sent  a  man  ahead  of  you  to  keep  peace  at  the  dance. 
I  know  you  have  a  heart,  and  it  means  something, 
—  means  a  great  deal  —  to  feel  that  some  one  in  these 
hills  feels  about  it  as  I  feel." 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  realizing  that  she  was  allowing 
too  much  appeal  to  creep  into  her  voice;  that  she  had 
come  to  fight,  not  to  sue  for  favor.  He  was  standing, 
making  no  offer  to  interrupt  or  answer  until  he  was 
quite  sure  she  was  through,  but  his  attitude  was  that 
of  dignified,  almost  deferential  attention. 


48  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"I  —  I  thought  maybe  you  would  help  me,"  she  fin- 
ished a  little  f alteringly.  "  Would  you  mind  telling 
me  your  name?  " 

He  had  unhitched  his  horse  and  stood  with  the  reins 
hanging  from  one  hand. 

"  It's  Havey,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but  hereabouts  I've 
got  another  name  that's  better  known."  He  paused, 
then  added  with  a  hardened  timber  of  voice  as  though 
bent  on  making  defiant  what  would  otherwise  sound  like 
confession :  "  It's  Bad  Anse." 

The  girl  recoiled  as  though  under  a  physical  shock. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  every  way  she  turned  she  was  to 
meet  staggering  disappointments.  She  had  spoken 
almost  pleadingly  to  the  man  with  whom  she  could  make 
no  terms ;  the  man  whose  arrogant  power  and  lawless  in- 
fluence she  must  break  and  paralyze  before  her  own 
regime  could  find  standing  room  in  these  hills. 

Yet  as  she  looked  at  him  standing  there,  and  stiffened 
resolutely,  she  could  say  nothing  except,  "  Oh ! " 

Into  the  monosyllable  crept  many  things:  repulsion, 
defiance  and  chagrin  for  her  mistake,  and  in  recognition 
of  them  all  the  bronzed  features  of  the  man  hardened 
a  little  and  into  the  cool  eyes  snapped  a  sparkle  of  the 
sleeping  fires  she  had  divined. 

"  I  made  my  suggestion  to  the  wrong  man,"  she  said 
steadily.  "  I  misunderstood  you.  I  thought  you  said 
you  wanted  peace." 

He  swung  himself  to  the  saddle,  then  as  he  gathered 
up  his  reins  he  turned  and  in  his  utterance  was  immov- 
able steadiness  and  glacial  coldness,  together  with  a 
ring  of  contempt  and  restrained  anger. 

"  I  did  say  that  and  by  God  Almighty,  I  meant  just 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  49 

what  I  said.  I  do  want  peace  in  these  mountains  —  but 
I  ain't  never  found  no  way  yet  ter  get  peace  without 
fightin'  for  it." 

She  saw  him  ride  away  into  the  moonlight,  with  his 
shoulders  very  straight  and  the  battered  felt  hat  very 
high,  and  he  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left  as  he  went 
until  the  mists  had  swallowed  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

FOR  the  rest  of  her  life  Juanita  looked  back  npom 
the  remainder  of  that  night  as  upon  some  lurid  de- 
lirium shot  across  with  many  hideous  apparitions. 

For  a  long  while  she  sat  there  on  the  stile  gazing 
across  the  steep  banks  between  which  the  waters  of 
Tribulation  slipped  along  in  a  tide  of  tarnished  quick- 
silver, and  beyond  which  rose  the  near  ridges  of  blue 
and  the  far  dim  ridges  of  gray.  At  her  back  she  knew 
that  the  family  and  the  missionary  were  sitting  in  talk. 
Their  nasal,  high-pitched  voices  drifted  vaguely  to  her 
and  jarred  upon  her  nerves.  Jeb,  the  oldest  boy,  had 
left  after  supper  to  go  back  to  the  dance  —  for  in  these 
lonely  back  waters  of  the  world  any  sort  of  entertain- 
ment is  too  rare  to  be  wasted.  Down  by  the  water  the 
frogs  whose  voices  had  a  little  while  ago  seemed  mellow 
were  croaking  dismally  now,  and  when  some  soft-winged 
and  noiseless  creature  fluttered  by  near  her  face  and 
from  the  sycamore  overhead  quavered  the  long  wistful 
call  of  a  "  grave-yard  owl  "  she  shivered  a  little.  Even 
the  message  of  the  whippoorwill  was  changed.  In- 
stead of  "  Whippoorwill "  the  birds  seemed  to  voice  in 
dirge-like  monotony,  "  These  poor  hills !  ,  These  poor 
hills!" 

She  sat  there  with  her  hands  clasped  about  her  up- 
drawn  knees  as  she  used  to  sit  when  some  childhood 

grief  had  weighed  upon  her.     The  moonlight  caught 

£0 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  51 

and  sparkled  on  wet  lashes  and  something  suspiciously 
like  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  there  was  no  one  to  see  except 
the  downy  owl  that  blinked  back  from  the  bone-white 
branch  of  the  gnarled  sycamore. 

She  could  not  shake  out  of  her  mind  the  humiliation 
of  having  shown  her  weakest  side  to  Bad  Anse  Havey. 
It  was  some  satisfaction  to  remember  the  offended  stif- 
fening of  his  shoulders  and  the  dark  fire  in  his  eyes. 
She  had  heard  much  of  the  easily  hurt  pride  of  these 
mountain  men ;  a  pride  which  made  them  walk  in  strange 
surroundings  with  upright  heads  and  eyes  challenging 
criticism  of  their  uncouthness,  their  wildness.  She  had 
first  appealed  to  this  man,  but  at  least  she  had  also 
stung  him  with  her  scorn.  Now  they  would  be  open 
enemies. 

And  with  thought  of  him,  the  whole  situation  grew 
strangely  complex.  She  could  no  longer  think  of  him 
as  she  had  before  thought  of  him,  nor  of  his  people  as 
she  had  before  thought  of  them. 

She  knew  that  this  young  man  in  a  country  where 
every  man  was  poor  and  no  man  a  pauper,  owned  great 
tracts  of  land  that  yielded  only  sparse  crops,  with  the 
most  arduous  coaxing.  She  knew  that  under  his  rocky 
acres  slept  a  great  wealth  of  coal  and  that  above  them 
grew  noble  and  virgin  forests  of  hard  wood.  The  com- 
ing of  railroads  and  development  would  make  him  a 
rich  man.  Yet  he  stood  there,  seemingly  prizing  above 
all  those  magnificent  certainties  the  empty  boast  of 
feudal  chieftainship.  He  stood  like  an  eagle  on  a  tree- 
top,  jealously  guarding  the  wild  fastnesses  of  the  crags 
around  him.  Why?  She  asked  herself  and  found  no 
answer.  At  all  events  he  was  a  man.  With  that 


52  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

thought  came  an  unwelcome  comparison  and  a  catch  in 
her  throat.  The  moon  was  full  and  when  last  it  had 
been  full  it  had  shone  on  a  leave-taking  between  trimmed 
hedges. 

She  drew  herself  up  straight  as  she  sat  on  the  stile 
and  impatiently  dashed  away  the  moisture  from  her 
eyes.  If  that  other  man  had  only  had  in  him  the  iron 
wasted  on  this  desperado,  Anse  Havey! 

The  gods  blend  badly  the  elements  in  life's  crucible, 
she  pondered.  A  mongrel  dog  strolled  over  to  the  stile 
and  sniffed  at  her  ankles.  She  had  heard  Mrs.  McNash 
call  the  brute's  name,  and  now  she  put  out  a  friendly 
hand  and  laid  it  on  the  upstretched  muzzle.  "  It's 
a  pretty  funny  old  world,  Beardog,  isn't  it? "  she 
sighed  and  the  mongrel  wagged  its  stump  tail  in  ready 
affirmation.  Then  she  rose  and  went  unwillingly  back 
to  the  cabin. 

She  did  not  know  that  in  drawing  off  to  herself  and 
denying  her  isolated  entertainers  the  novelty  of  hen 
society  she  had  been  guilty  of  a  grave  discourtesy. 
And  they  did  not  intimate  to  her  that  their  pride  was 
wounded  for  in  the  Cumberlands  a  law  which  is  above 
other  laws  guarantees  to  the  guest  under  one's  roof-tree 
all  that  the  meager  possibilities  afford,  and  returns  even 
for  slighting  appreciation  a  homely  dignity  of  welcome. 

From  the  lean-to  kitchen  Mrs.  McNash  had  brought 
a  pan  of  live  coals  and  the  cavernous  recesses  of  the 
smoke-blackened  chimney  roared  with  a  great  fire.  The 
air  had  taken  on  the  night  chill  of  the  high  places  al- 
though it  was  June,  and  now  in  the  illumination  from 
the  hearth  Juanita  saw  for  the  first  time  the  ugly  pic- 
ture of  the  single  room. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  53 

The  floor  was  grimy  and  in  each  corner  stood  a  huge 
four-post  bed  so  that  only  about  the  hearth  was  a  cir- 
cumscribed space  for  the  crowded  chairs.  Close  to  the 
door  leaned  an  ancient  spinning  wheel  and  everywhere 
was  the  dust  and  soot  of  an  unlighted  place  where  a 
gust  of  downward  wind  drives  the  smoke  inward.  One 
note  only  was  modern.  Propped  against  the  wall  near 
the  head  of  one  bed,  evidently  that  of  Fletch  and  his 
wife,  was  a  rifle,  ready  to  hand,  and  as  the  fire  burned 
high  and  the  corners  of  the  room  came  into  sight,  the 
light  played  and  flickered  on  its  barrel  and  stock  and 
caught  the  blue  metal  of  a  heavy  revolver  which  hung 
in  belt  and  holster  from  the  bed-post. 

The  host  sat  barefooted  before  the  blaze  and  talked 
with  the  missionary.  The  girl  heard  their  conversa- 
tion through  the  dullness  of  fatigue,  wondering  how 
she  was  to  sleep  in  this  pigsty,  yet  restrained  from 
asking  permission  to  retire  only  by  her  embarrassment 
and  unfamiliarity  with  the  native  code. 

"  I'm  plumb  pleased  ter  know  ye,  Brother  Talbott," 
Fletch  McNash,  now  apparently  recovered  from  his 
day's  carousal,  was  gravely  assuring  the  missionary. 
"  I've  heerd  tell  about  ye  fer  years.  Hit  seems  qu'ar 
I  hain't  never  met  up  with  ye  afore  now.  Folks  says, 
that  afore  ye  repented  an'  foun'  grace  they  used  ter 
call  ye  Hell-cat  Talbott,  an'  thet  in  the  old  Talbott- 
Hawkins  war  ye  war  a  mighty  vi'lent  man." 

The  missionary  sighed.  "  Thet  war  afore  the  speret 
Ascended  on  me.  Nowadays  folks  calls  me  *  Good 
Anse.'  I  hopes  I  be." 

At  last  Juanita  heard  Brother  Talbott  suggest, 
"  Hit's  gittin'  on  ter  be  late  an'  we've  got  a  tol'able  long 


54  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

way  ter  journey  ter-morrer.  I  reckon  we'd  better  lay 
down." 

Juanita  began  nervously  counting  heads.  There 
were  eight  in  the  room  and  the  boy  Jeb  yet  to  return 
from  the  dance,  and  while  she  was  still  trying  to  work 
out  the  problem  the  woman  pointed  to  a  corner  bed  and 
suggested,  "  I  reckon  you'd  better  bundle  in  with  Dawn." 

She  saw  the  girl  crawl  into  the  four-poster  just  as 
she  was  and  the  missionary  kick  off  his  brogans  and  shed 
his  coat,  so  taking  off  her  own  boots  and  jacket  she 
slipped  between  the  faded  "  coverlets  "  of  the  sheetless 
bed  and  tried  to  banish  hateful  comparisons. 

In  five  minutes  the  taper  was  out  and  the  place  was 
silent  save  for  the  crackle  and  sputter  of  the  logs.  The 
little  girl  at  her  side  lay  quiet  and  her  regular  breath- 
ing proclaimed  her  already  asleep.  In  another  five 
minutes  Juanita  with  closed  eyes  and  burning  lids,  and 
aching  muscles,  heard  the  nasal  chorus  of  snoring  sleep- 
ers. She  alone  was  awake  in  the  house. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  up  at  the  discolored 
rafters.  She  watched  the  light  sparkle  and  flash  on 
barrel  of  rifle  and  lock  of  pistol.  The  heat  of  the  place 
became  a  swelter;  the  mingled  odors  of  charred  wood, 
tobacco  smoke  and  the  fumes  of  liquor  nauseated  her. 

Her  mind  went  back  to  the  view  across  the  lawns  of 
the  Country  Club  at  home.  She  saw  the  ivied  walls 
of  the  college  where  she  had  been  educated  —  for  this. 
Then  she  saw  in  memory  the  delicately  dancing  string 
of  polo  ponies  going  over  to  the  grounds  for  the  afternoon 
game;  saw  herself  sitting  with  other  daintily  gowned 
women  on  the  white  flagstoned  terrace  of  the  club-house. 
Outside  the  door  "  Beardog,"  the  mongrel,  whined 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  55 

vainly  for  admittance  and  she  grew  homesick  for  even  a 
glimpse  of  her  great  Dane. 

And  as  she  thought  of  these  things  the  soul  in  her 
grew  small  and  weak  and  very  sick,  and  the  heart  in  her 
told  her  that  it  stood  on  the  verge  of  breaking. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  is  related  in  the  history  of  the  Hatfield-McCoy 
feud,  which  burst  out  between  neighbors  over  a 
stray  pig,  and  claimed  its  toll  of  lives  through  a 
half  century,  that  one  of  the  Hatfield  girls  wrote  on  a 
white  pillar  at  the  front  of  her  often  bereaved  house, 
"  There  is  no  place  like  home."  The  sequel  tells  that 
a  cynical  traveler  passing  that  way,  reflected  on  the 
annals  of  that  house  and  added  in  postscript,  "  Least- 
ways not  this  side  of  hell." 

The  story  of  the  Hatfield-McCoy  feud  is  in  many 
ways  that  of  other  "  wars  "  which  have  made  of  the 
roof-tree  of  the  eastern  divide  a  land  beleaguered  and 
unique. 

To  the  crags  and  coves  where  he  was  born  the  moun- 
tain man  adheres,  and  if  by  chance  he  is  led  to  wander, 
even  if  he  leaves  his  country  for  his  country's  good,  the 
call  of  the  highlands  will  inevitably  draw  him  back  to 
face  the  shot  from  the  laurel  and  the  vengeance  of  the 
enemy  who  has  "  bided  his  time." 

Two  hundred  years  ago  a  handful  of  Anglo-Saxons 
were  stranded  there  where  nature's  defiance  proved 
strong  enough  to  halt  their  westward  march. 

It  was  not  granted  them,  as  it  was  their  more  favored 
brethren  to  colonize  the  rich  land  of  promise  beyond 
and  upon  them  settled  the  bitter  heritage  of  the  dere- 
lict. Their  great-grandchildren  remain  to-day  pio- 

46 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  57 

neers  in  bondage  to  the  hills.  They  sing  the  songs  once 
sung  along  the  wild  Scottish  border  and  jealously  hold 
to  outgrown  ideals.  They  fight  to  the  death  and  turn 
away  no  shelterless  stranger  and  forgive  no  enemy. 

From  such  blood  came  Lincoln  and  from  it  will  come 
other  Lincolns. 

To  these  men  the  ordered  civilization  of  "  Down  be- 
low "  means  a  foreign  power  which  autocratically 
crushes.  It  means  Courts  whose  processes  become  a 
power  in  the  hands  of  feudal  enemies,  used  to  smite  and 
persecute. 

In  the  war  between  the  Haveys  and  the  McBriars 
there  was  more  than  the  forgotten  episode  of  a  stray 
razor-back,  which  was  not  surrendered  to  its  lawful 
owners.  They  had  for  decades  hated  and  killed  each 
other  with  a  fidelity  of  bitterness  that  made  all  their 
truces  and  intermarriages  fail  of  permanent  peace. 

Between  the  territories  where  they  had  originally 
settled,  stretched  a  barrier  of  hills  broken  by  only  one 
passable  gap.  The  McBriars  had  made  their  first  hab- 
itations east  of  that  ridge  and  gap  where  the  waters 
run  toward  the  sea.  The  Haveys  had  set  up  their 
power  to  the  west  where  the  springs  feed  the  rivers  that 
go  down  to  the  Bluegrass  and  to  Tennessee.  Had  the 
two  clans  been  content  to  remain  respectively  on  the 
sunrise  and  sunset  slopes  of  the  backbone,  they  might 
never  have  clashed,  but  there  were  bright-eyed  women 
to  the  west  and  east.  Feminine  Havey  eyes  lured  Mc- 
Briar  suitors  and  McBriar  girls  seemed  to  the  Havey 
men  worth  any  dare  that  Fate  might  set  for  their  ven- 
turing. So  it  has  been  since  young  Montagus  and 
Capulets  ignored  dead  lines  —  and  long  before.  Smoke 


58  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

went  up  from  cabins  on  both  sides  that  housed  men  and 
women  of  both  clans.  Hatred  scattered  and  set  up 
new  points  of  infection  all  along  Tribulation  and  be- 
yond its  headwaters. 

The  war  of  the  States  had  rent  them  farther  apart 
when  McBriars  fought  for  and  Haveys  against  the  Un- 
ion. Since  then  each  clan  had  wielded  strong  political 
power,  and  wielded  it  against  each  other,  but  far  be- 
low flag  and  party  went  down  the  tap  root  of  poisonous 
and  personal  hatred. 

It  was  an  unfortunate  thing  that  Cal  Douglas 
should,  on  a  February  afternoon,  have  shot  to  death 
his  brother-in-law,  Noah  McKay,  even  if  as  Cal  ear- 
nestly assured  the  Jury  "  he  was  jest  obleeged  an'  be- 
holden ter  do  hit."  All  the  circumstances  of  the  affair 
were  inopportune  for  his  kinsmen  and  the  kinsmen  of 
the  man  who  died  with  a  bullet  through  his  vitals. 

Cal  bore  a  name  for  surly  character  and  even  in  a 
land  where  grudge-bearing  is  a  religion,  he  was  deemed 
ultra  fanatical  in  fanning  the  flame  of  hatred.  Noah 
McKay,  himself,  was  little  loved  by  either  the  Haveys, 
into  whose  family  he  had  married,  or  the  McBriars  from 
whom  he  sprang.  Neighbors  told  of  frequent  and  vio- 
lent bickerings  between  the  man  and  his  shrewish  wife 
who  was  the  twin  sister  of  Cal  Douglas. 

"  Cal  Douglas  an'  Noey  McKay's  woman  air  es  much 
alike  es  two  peas  in  a  pod,"  went  neighborhood  pro- 
nouncement. "  They  air  both  soured  on  mankind  an' 
they  glories  in  human  misery." 

Had  the  fight  on  that  winter  evening  ended  in  the 
death  of  both  participants,  McBriars  and  Haveys  would 
alike  have  called  it  a  gentle  riddance  and  dropped  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  59 

matter  where  it  stood.  But  since  a  Havey  had  slain 
a  McBriar,  and  the  Havey  still  lived  it  could  not,  in 
honor,  be  so  dropped.  It  left  an  uneven  score. 

So  the  McBriars  called  that  killing  a  murder  while 
the  Haveys  styled  it  self-defense,  and  a  new  peg  was 
driven  upon  which  to  hang  clan  bitterness. 

Since  the  mountaineer  has  little  to  do  in  the  winter 
and  spring  save  gossip,  the  affair  grew  in  importance 
with  rehearsing  and  to  each  telling  was  added  new  fea- 
tures. It  was  assumed  east  of  the  ridge  that  Noah  had 
incurred  the  displeasure  of  Bad  Anse  Havey  by  the 
suspicion  of  tale-bearing  to  old  Milt  McBriar.  It  was 
argued  that  that  particular  wife-beating  might  have 
passed  as  uneventfully  as  several  similar  episodes  here- 
tofore, had  not  the  heads  of  the  Haveys  made  it  a  pre- 
text for  eliminating  a  McBriar  who  dwelt  in  their  midst 
and  carried  news  across  the  ridge  to  his  own  people. 

For  several  years  the  feud  had  slept,  not  the  com- 
plete sleep  of  death,  but  the  fitful,  simmering  sleep  of 
precarious  animosity.  Slowly  the  bitterness  had  be- 
come a  fevered  sore,  so  tense  and  strained  that  it  needed 
only  a  spark  to  fire  it  into  actual  war.  But  neither 
clan  felt  so  overwhelmingly  strong  as  to  court  an  issue 
just  yet  and  realizing  the  desperate  quality  of  any  out- 
break, both  Milt  McBriar  "  over  yon  "  and  Anse  Havey 
over  here  had  guarded  the  more  belligerent  kinsmen 
with  jealous  eye.  They  had  until  now  held  them 
checked  and  leashed,  though  growling. 

For  these  reasons  the  trial  had  been  awaited  with  a 
sense  of  crisis  in  the  town  of  Peril  where  it  might  mean 
a  pitched  battle.  So  it  had  been  awaited,  too,  up  and 
down  the  creeks  and  branches  that  crept  from  the 


60  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

ragged  hills,  where  men  were  leading  morbid  lives  of 
isolation  and  nursing  grudges. 

Yet  nothing  had  happened,  and  though  the  streets 
were  empty  of  peaceful  folk  and  doors  were  barred, 
when  the  bell  in  the  rickety  cupola  called  men  to  attend 
"  High-Court,"  the  case  had  proceeded  with  a  surpris- 
ing apathy. 

During  the  three  days  that  the  suspense  of  the  trial 
continued,  each  recess  of  Court  found  the  long-limbed 
frame  of  Milt  McBriar  tilted  back  in  a  split-bottomed 
chair  on  the  flagstones  at  the  front  of  the  hotel.  His 
dark  face  and  piercing  eyes  gazed  always  thoughtfully, 
and  very  calmly  off  across  the  dusty  town  to  the  re- 
poseful languor  of  the  piled-up,  purple  skyline.  Like- 
wise each  recess  found  seated  at  the  other  end  of  the 
same  house-front  the  shorter,  heavier  figure  of  a  fair- 
haired  man  with  ruddy  face  and  sandy  mustache. 
Never  did  he  appear  there  without  two  companions,  who 
like  his  Lartius  and  Herminius  remained  at  his  right 
and  left.  Never  did  the  dark  giant  speak  to  the  florid 
man,  yet  never  did  either  fail  to  keep  a  glance  directed 
toward  the  other. 

The  man  of  the  sandy  hair  was  Breck  Havey,  next 
to  Bad  Anse,  the  most  influential  leader  of  the  clan. 
His  influence  here  in  Peril  made  or  unmade  the  officers 
of  the  law. 

When  these  two  men  came  together,  as  opposing  wit- 
nesses in  a  homicide  case,  the  air  was  fraught  with  ele- 
ments of  storm.  "  Thar's  war  a-brewin',"  commented 
a  native,  glancing  at  the  quietly  seated  figures  one  noon, 
"  an'  them  fellers  air  in  ther  b'ilin'." 


CHAPTER  VII 

PHYSICAL  exhaustion  will  finally  tell,  even  over 
such  handicaps  as  a  mountain  feather-bed  and  the 
fumes  of  a  backwoods  cabin. 

If  Juanita  Holland  did  not  at  last  actually  fall 
asleep  she  drifted  into  a  sort  of  coma  and  uneasily 
dreamed  that  she  was  watching  a  polo  game  at  Bryn 
Mawr.  The  man  whom  she  had  sent  away  was  dash- 
ing, with  lifted  mallet,  after  the  willow  ball  and  she 
was  bending  forward  with  parted  lips. 

Behind  the  white  goal  posts  was  a  ragged  mountain 
thick  with  tangles  of  laurel  and  rhododendron,  for  such 
is  the  chaotic  topography  of  dreams.  Just  at  the  mo- 
ment when  the  man,  whom  she  had  sent  away,  raised 
his  mallet  for  the  stroke  which  should  score  a  goal,  she 
saw  Bad  Anse  Havey  step  from  the  thicket  and  throw 
to  his  shoulder  a  rifle  which  barked  before  she  could 
scream  a  warning.  The  other  man  fell  from  his  pony 
with  a  red  smear  on  his  silk  shirt  and  as  he  fell  he  said 
calmly,  but  bitterly,  to  her  across  the  field,  while  their 
eyes  met,  "  This  is  your  doing,  Juanita." 

She  wondered  if  she  had  really  screamed  aloud  as 
her  eyes  opened  and  stared  at  the  rafters,  but  little 
Dawn's  sleeping  breath  rose  and  fell  undisturbed  at 
her  side,  and  the  snores  about  her  went  on  unbroken. 
She  raised  her  hand  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
her  eyes.  She  even  ventured  to  look  cautiously  about. 

61 


62  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

After  all  she  must  have  slept  heavily  for  now  besides 
the  four  beds  there  was  a  pallet  on  the  floor  and  at  its 
top  the  fire-light,  which  was  lower  now,  but  still  strong, 
showed  a  towsled  head,  and  at  its  bottom  two  bare  feet. 
Jeb  had  come  home  from  the  dance. 

Again  she  shut  her  eyes,  but  their  lids  were  hot  and 
feverish.  The  whole  procession  of  the  day's  wretched 
occurrences  paraded  before  her  and  she  wondered  if 
these  creatures  were  worth  the  effort  she  was  making 
in  their  behalf.  Here  they  slept  about  her  the  sodden 
sleep  of  beasts,  herded  together  in  dirty  congestion. 
How,  into  such  a  life,  could  she  hope  to  introduce  clean 
ideals  or  ambitions? 

From  present  disgust  and  discouragement  the  trend 
of  her  reflections  swept  forward  into  premonitions  and 
sorry  prophecies  for  the  future.  If  to-night  was  bad 
what  might  to-morrow  be? 

The  messenger  who  had  talked  low  out  there  in  the 
dark,  when  the  tall  stranger  had  still  been  to  her  cnly 
a  soothing  voice,  was  a  native.  He  looked  as  if  he  had 
been  trained  to  face  even  the  uncertainties  of  such  a 
life  as  this.  And  yet  his  utterance,  too,  had  been  shrill 
with  excitement.  "  Thar's  liable  ter  be  hell  ter-night !  " 
What  might  even  now  be  happening  over  there,  where 
Milt  McBriar  designed  to  give  the  Haveys  "  somethin' 
ter  celebrate  proper  "  ? 

What  monstrous  things  might  she  have  to  face  at  the 
very  inception  of  her  mission?  Could  it  be  that  the 
sleeping  volcano  of  violence  would  select  her  coming 
as  a  cue  for  eruption,  and  that  she,  who  had  seen  only 
the  better  things  of  life  until  to-day,  must  begin  her 
work  by  looking  on  at  iuch  a  revolting  drama!' 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  63 

She  had  come  here  only  to  try  to  aid  and  assist,  and 
in  welcome  the  very  crags  and  everything  within  their 
sandstone  gates  were  showing  her  a  snarl  of  bared  fangs 
and  evil,  burning  eyes. 

For  a  seeming  of  centuries  she  lay  there  aching  in 
heart  and  mind  and  body.  She  kept  her  eyes  tight 
shut  and  tried  to  count  sheep  jumping  over  a  fence. 
She  tried  to  think  of  pleasant,  inconsequential  things 
and  of  dances  and  house  parties  where  she  had  had  a 
good  time. 

And  finally  she  fell  again  into  that  half  sleep  which 
dreams  of  wakefulness.  It  may  have  lasted  minutes  or 
hours,  but  suddenly  she  roused  again  with  a  start  from 
a  new  nightmare  and  lay  trembling  under  the  oppres- 
sion of  a  poignant  foreboding.  What  was  it  that  she 
had  subconsciously  heard  or  imagined?  She  was  pain- 
fully wide  awake  in  the  slumbering  cabin.  At  last  she 
was  sure  of  a  sound,  low,  but  instinct  with  warning. 

Beardog  was  growling  just  outside  the  door. 

Then  violently  and  without  the  preface  of  gradual 
approach  —  precisely  as  though  horsemen  had  sprung 
from  the  earth  —  there  clattered  and  beat  past  the 
front  of  the  cabin  a  staccato  thunder  of  wildly  gallop- 
ing hoofs  and  a  rattle  of  scattered  rocks.  She  felt  an 
uncanny  freezing  of  her  marrow.  Horses  travel  peril- 
ous and  broken  roads  in  that  fashion  only  when  their 
riders  are  in  wild  haste. 

As  abruptly  as  the  drum-beat  had  come  it  died  again 
into  silence  and  there  was  no  diminuendo  of  hoof-beats 
receding  into  the  distance.  The  thing  was  weird  and 
ghostly.  She  had  not  noticed  in  the  weariness  of  ar- 
rival at  the  cabin  that  the  road  ran  deep  in  sand  to  the 


64  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

corner  of  the  fence  and  that  after  fifty  yards  of  rough 
and  broken  rock  it  fell  away  again  into  another  sound- 
muffling  stretch.  She  knew  only  that  she  was  thor- 
oughly frightened  and  that  whatever  the  noise  was,  it 
bore  with  it  the  proclaiming  of  hot  and  desperate  haste. 

Yet  even  in  her  terror  she  had  moved  only  to  turn  her 
head,  and  had  opened  her  eyes  cautiously  and  narrowly. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  cabin  now;  not  even  the 
stertorous  breath  of  a  snore.  The  fire  flickered  faintly 
and  occasionally  sent  up  from  its  white  bed  of  ashes  a 
dying  spurt,  before  which  the  darkness  fell  back  a  little, 
for  the  moment.  She  could  see  that  Fletch  McNash 
had  half  risen  in  his  bed.  His  head  was  partly  turned 
in  an  attitude  of  intent  listening  and  his  pose  was  as 
rigid  as  that  of  a  bird  dog  frozen  on  a  point.  It  had 
all  been  momentary  and  as  Juanita  gazed,  she  saw  other 
figures  stir  uneasily,  though  no  one  spoke.  The  boy 
on  the  floor  had  not  moved.  The  missionary  lay  still, 
but  the  woman's  figure  stirred  uneasily  beneath  the 
heaped-up  quilt. 

So  for  a  few  moments  the  strange  and  tense  tableau 
held,  and  the  girl,  watching  the  house-holder's  alert  and 
motionless  pose,  remembered  him  as  he  had  hunched 
drunkenly  over  his  plate  a  few  hours  ago.  The  two 
pictures  were  hard  to  reconcile. 

Then  at  some  warning  which  her  less  acute  ears  failed 
to  register,  she  saw  Fletch  McNash's  right  hand  sweep 
outward  toward  the  wall  and  come  up  gripping  the 
rifle. 

Still  there  was  no  word,  though  the  eldest  boy's  head 
had  risen  from  the  pallet. 

Keyed  now  to  concert  pitch,  the  girl  held  her  body 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  65 

rigid  and  through  half-closed  lids,  looked  across  the 
dim  room.  While  she  was  so  staring,  and  pretending 
to  sleep  there  drifted  from  a  long  way  off  an  insistent, 
animal-like  jell  with  a  peculiar  quaver  in  its  final  note. 
She  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  famous  McBriar  rally- 
ing cry,  and  that  trouble  inevitably  followed  fast  in 
the  wake  of  its  sounding.  She  knew  only  that  it  fitted 
in  with  her  childhood's  terrified  conception  of  the  In- 
dian's war-whoop.  But  she  did  know  that  in  an  instant 
after  it  had  been  borne  along  the  wind  she  had  seen  a 
thing  happen  which  she  would  have  disbelieved  had 
she  heard  it  from  the  lips  of  a  narrator;  a  thing  un- 
realizable in  its  swift  silence ;  a  thing  belonging  to  the 
stern  legerdemain  of  self-defense. 

She  saw,  in  one  breathing  space,  the  half-risen  figure 
of  Fletch  McNash  under  the  covers  of  his  bed;  and 
that  of  young  Jeb  under  the  quilts  of  his  pallet.  She 
saw  in  the  next  breathing  space,  with  no  realization  of 
how  it  had  happened,  both  of  them  crouched  low  at  the 
center  of  the  floor;  the  father's  eyes  glued  to  the  front 
door,  the  son's  to  the  back.  And  as  they  crouched  there 
in  the  fitful  firelight,  their  long  shadows  wavered  off 
from  them  —  rising  and  falling  in  inky  patches.  The 
elder  man  bent  low  like  a  runner  on  his  mark  waiting 
the  starting  signal.  His  right  hand  held  the  rifle  at  his 
front,  his  left  lightly  touched  the  floor  with  fingers 
spread  to  brace  his  posture,  and  his  face  was  tensely 
upturned.  So  while  she  counted  ten  father  and  son 
crouched  in  precisely  similar  poses,  one  covering  the 
barred  door  at  the  front  with  a  repeating  rifle,  the  other 
seeming  to  stare  through  the  massive  timbers  of  that 
at  the  back  with  leveled  pistol.  No  one  spoke.  No 


66  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

one  moved,  but  the  regular  swelling  breath  of  sleep 
had  died  for  every  pair  of  lips  in  the  place  was  holding 
its  breath  bated.  Then  came  a  fresh  pounding  of 
hooves  and  scattering  of  gravel,  and  a  chorus  of  angry 
incoherent  voices  sounded  above  the  noise  of  flight  —  or 
was  it  pursuit?  Whatever  words  were  being  shouted 
out  there  in  the  night  were  swallowed  in  the  medley, 
except  a  wake  of  oaths  that  seemed  to  float  behind. 

The  noise,  like  the  other  which  had  preceded  it,  died 
swiftly,  but  in  the  instant  that  it  lasted  Fletch  McNash 
lifted  his  left  hand  and  brought  his  rifle  to  the  "  ready  " 
and  his  son  had  instinctively  thrust  forward  his  cocked 
revolver. 

For  a  full  minute,  perhaps,  the  girl  in  the  bed  had 
the  picture  of  two  figures  bent  low  like  bronze  emblems 
of  motionless  preparedness,  yet  not  a  syllable  had  been 
spoken  and  when  from  quite  a  distance  beyond  there 
came  the  snap  of  a  single  shot,  followed  by  the  retort 
of  a  volley,  they  still  neither  spoke  nor  moved.  But 
at  last  as  if  by  one  impulse  they  rose  and  turned  to  face 
each  other. 

Then  and  then  only  was  there  utterance  of  any  sort 
inside  the  house.  In  a  voice,  so  low  that  Juanita  would 
not  have  heard  it  had  not  every  sense  been  acutely  and 
painfully  alert,  Fletch  spoke  to  his  son,  "  I  reckon 
ther  war's  on  ag'in." 

The  boy  nodded  sullenly  and  the  father  commanded 
in  an  almost  inaudible  undertone, 

"  Lay  down." 

The  boy  went  back  to  his  pallet  and  the  father  to 
his  bed.  For  a  long  time  there  was  dead  silence  and 
then  one  by  one  they  took  up  again  their  chorus  of 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  67 

snores.  To-morrow  might  bring  chaos,  but  to-night 
offered  sleep.  Still  the  girl  lay  gazing  helplessly  up 
at  the  rafters  and  wondering  what  things  had  tran- 
spired out  there  between  the  grim  uncommunicative  si- 
lences of  the  slopes. 

A  little  while  ago  she  had  been  dreading  what  might 
come.  Now  in  an  access  of  terror  she  thought  of  what 
must  come.  "  Ther  war's  on  "  ;  that  was  enough.  Evi- 
dently there  had  been  "  hell  "  over  there  at  the  dance. 
She  had  reached  the  country  just  in  time  to  see  a  new 
and  sanguinary  chapter  open.  Her  view  of  the  life  had 
so  far  consisted  only  of  thumb-nail  sketches,  but  they 
had  been  terrible  little  keyhole  pictures,  and  she  trem- 
bled as  she  lay  there  contemplating  what  was  before  her 
when  the  door  should  be  fully  opened. 

She  would  in  all  probability  see  people  she  actually 
knew,  with  whom  she  had  spoken  and  whose  hands  she 
had  taken,  the  victims  of  this  brutal  blood-lust.  She 
would  have  to  live  day  in  and  day  out  with  murderers 
and  accustom  herself  to  their  atrocities.  Every  delicate 
fiber  in  her  nature  throbbed  with  repulsion  and  panic. 

The  horror  of  the  whole  system  danced  a  grisly  rig- 
adoon  of  death  across  her  throbbing  eyeballs. 

Through  her  head  ran  hideously  lines  of  verse: 

".  .  .  But  never  came  the  day; 
And  crooked  shapes  of  terror  crouched, 

In  the  corners  where  we  lay: 
And  each  evil  sprite  that  walks  by  night 

Before  us  seemed  to  play." 

And  in  the  face  of  such  things  these  human  beasts 
could  sleep! 

But  one  was  not  sleeping,  and  after  a  while  among 


68  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  snoring  slumberers  Good  Anse  Talbott  rose  and 
fell  upon  his  knees  before  the  hearth.  There  were  still 
a  few  glowing  embers  there  and  as  he  bent  and  at  last 
took  the  knotted  hands  away  from  his  seamed  face, 
a  feeble  light  fell  upon  his  features  and  upon  the  bare 
feet  that  twisted  convulsively  as  he  prayed. 

It  was  a  tortured  face,  and  as  the  girl  watched  him 
she  realized  for  the  first  time  the  significance  of  the 
words  "  to  wrestle  in  prayer."  It  suddenly  came  to 
her  that  she  had  never  before  seen  a  man  really  pray, 
and  for  an  hour  the  backwoods  missionary  knelt  there 
pleading  with  his  God  for  his  unrepentant  people. 

Often  his  voice  was  only  a  groaning  murmur  out  of 
which  came  no  coherence,  unless  as  it  might  be,  that 
God  could  understand.  But  now  and  then  slie  caught 
words  and  her  own  hands  lying  on  the  quilt  folded  them- 
selves reverently. 

".  .  .  Oh,  Lord  I  hev  sought  ter  carry  Thy  gawspel 
ter  these  folk,  but  I  reckon  I  hain't  hardly  no  worthy 
vessel  .  .  .  my  own  hands  hev  been  red  with  blood,  but, 
Lord,  I've  done  sought  ter  wash  'em  clean  an'  dedicate 
them  ter  Thy  sarvice  .  .  .  Lord  Gawd,  look  down  an' 
command  me.  .  .  .  Show  me  .  .  .  ther  way  ter  teach 
'em  an'  ter  lead  'em  up  outen  these  shadders.  .  .  .  Lord 
Gawd,  show  me  ther  way  !  " 

Outside  a  single  whippoorwill  wailed  plaintively : 
"  These  poor  hills !  These  poor  hills  !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN   the  lowlands  morning  announces  itself  with  the 
rosy  glow  of  dawn   and   upflung  shafts   of  light, 
but  here  in  the  hills  of  Appalachia  even  the  sun 
comes  stealing  with  surreptitious  caution  and  veiled  face 
as  if  fearful  of  ambuscade. 

When  Juanita  opened  her  eyes,  to  find  the  tumbled 
beds  empty  save  for  herself,  she  thought  with  a  dismal 
heart  that  a  day  of  rain  and  sodden  skies  lay  ahead 
of  her. 

The  dim  room  reeked  with  wet  mists  and  an  inquisi- 
tive young  rooster  stalked  jauntily  over  the  puncheon 
floor,  where  his  footfalls  sounded  in  tiny  clicks.  It 
was  a  few  minutes  after  five  o'clock  and  Juanita  shiv- 
ered a  little  with  the  clammy  chill  as  she  went  over  to 
the  door  and  looked  out. 

The  mountains  were  vague  apparitions,  though  the 
sun  should  have  risen  an  hour  ago.  The  whole  land- 
scape was  a  dreary  monotone,  shrouded  in  wet  stream- 
ers of  mist  that  cut  off  the  view  and  left  only  a  gray 
void  as  if  the  world  had  dissolved  over  night. 

Among  piled  up  bowlders  where  the  thicket  came  down 
to  the  yard's  edge  stood  a  single  tulip  poplar.  Its 
gnarled  roots  broke  from  the  earth  in  smooth-worn  el- 
bows, and  between  them  gushed  the  clear  tongue  of  a 
mountain  spring,  breaking  from  underground  and 
spilling  into  a  basin  of  rock. 

69 


70  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Bending  over  it  in  the  unconscious  grace  of  perfect 
naturalness,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  back  and  her  dark 
hair  tumbling,  knelt  the  girl,  Dawn. 

Juanita  crossed  the  yard  and  as  she  came  near,  the 
younger  girl  raised  a  face  still  glistening  with  the  cold 
water  into  which  it  had  been  plunged  and  glowing  with 
shyness. 

The  older  woman  nodded  with  a  smile  as  she,  too,  knelt 
to  thrust  her  face  into  the  sparkle  of  the  natural  foun- 
tain. "  Good-morning,"  she  said.  "  I  think  you  and 
I  are  going  to  be  great  friends.  I  know  we  are  if  you 
will  try  to  like  me  as  much  as  I  do  you." 

The  wild,  Dryad-like  little  creature  stood  with  the 
bare  toes  of  one  foot  twisting  in  the  wet  earth  and  the 
fingers  of  both  hands  nervously  clutching  at  the  calico 
of  her  skirt.  She  was  gazing  with  artless  worship  on 
the  fuller  beauty  of  the  "  furrin  "  visitor  who  was,  save 
for  the  swelling  of  more  womanly  curves,  as  slender  as 
herself. 

"  What  makes  ye  like  me  ?  "  she  suddenly  demanded 
in  a  half-challenging  voice,  while  her  eyes  held  the  di- 
rect questioning  of  one  who  will  establish  no  friendship 
on  a  basis  of  denied  frankness. 

"  You  make  me  like  you,"  laughed  Juanita,  as  she 
raised  a  dripping  countenance. 

The  mountain  girl  held  her  eyes  still  in  the  unwav- 
ering steadiness  of  her  race,  then  she  said  in  a  voice 
that  carried  an  undernote  of  defiance. 

"  Ye  hain't  nuver  seed  me  afore  an' — "  she  broke 
off,  then  added  doggedly  — "  an'  besides  I  don't  know 
nuthin'." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  71 

"  I  mean  to  see  you  often,  after  this,"  announced  the 
woman  from  Down-below,  "  and  the  things  you  don't 
know  can  all  be  learned." 

A  swift  eagerness  flashed  into  the  younger  face  and 
a  sudden  torrent  of  questioning  seemed  to  hover  on 
her  lips,  but  it  did  not  find  utterance.  She  only  turned 
and  led  the  way  silently  back  toward  the  house.  When 
they  were  almost  at  the  door  Dawn  hesitated  and  Juan- 
ita  encouraged  her  with  a  smile.  It  was  clear  that  the 
mountain  girl  found  whatever  she  meant  to  say  diffi- 
cult for  she  stood  indecisive  and  her  cheeks  were  hotly 
suffused  with  color,  so  that  at  last  Juanita  prompted, 
"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"  Ye  said  — "  began  Dawn  hastily  and  awkwardly, 
"  ye  said  suthin'  'bout  me  a-tryin'  ter  like  ye.  I  —  I 
don't  hafter  try  —  I  does  hit."  Then  having  made  a 
confession  as  difficult  to  her  shy  taciturnity  as  a  cal- 
low boy's  first  declaration  of  love,  she  fled  abruptly 
around  the  corner  of  the  house. 

Juanita  stood  looking  after  her  with  a  puzzled  brow. 
This  hard  mountain  reserve  which  is  so  strong  that 
friends  rarely  shake  hands ;  that  fathers  seldom  em- 
brace their  children,  and  that  the  kiss  is  known  only  to 
courtship,  was  new  to  her:  and  strange. 

At  breakfast  she  did  not  see  Dawn. 

Last  night,  until  heaviness  overtook  him,  Fletch 
McNash  had  been  voluble  and  full  of  loud  jest.  This 
morning  his  face  with  its  high  cheekbones  and  bushy 
beard,  was  unreadable  and  mute.  No  allusion  was  made 
to  the  happenings  of  last  night. 

But  the  girl  noticed  that  inside  the  door  leaned  the 


72  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

house-holder's  "  rifle-gun  "  and  under  Young  Jeb's  left 
arm-pit  bulged  the  partly  masked  shape  of  a  pistol 
butt. 

Young  Jeb's  face  yesterday  had  been  that  of  a  boy, 
this  morning  it  was  the  sullen  face  of  a  man  confront- 
ing grim  realities.  Had  Juanita  been  more  familiar 
with  the  contemporary  affairs  of  the  community  she 
might  have  known  that  many  visages  along  Tribulation 
that  morning  brooded  with  the  same  scowl  from  the 
same  cause.  The  McBriar  yell  had  been  raised  last 
night  in  the  heart  of  the  Havey  country,  and  this  morn- 
ing brought  the  shame  of  a  land  invaded  and  dishon- 
ored. 

Dawn  did  not  reappear  until  Juanita  had  mounted 
and  turned  her  mule's  head  forward.  Then  as  she  was 
passing  the  dilapidated  barn  the  slim  calico-clad  figure 
slipped  from  its  door  and  intercepted  her  in  the  road, 
holding  up  a  handful  of  queer-shaped  roots. 

"  I  'lowed  ye  mout  need  these  hyar,"  she  whispered 
still  diffidently. 

Juanita  smiled  as  she  bent  in  her  saddle  to  take  the 
gift. 

"  Thank  you,  dear.     What  are  they  ?  " 

"  Hit's  ginsang,"  Dawn  assured  her.  "  Hit  grows 
back  thar  in  ther  woods  an'  hits  got  a  powerful  heap  of 
virtue.  Hit  frisks  ther  speret  an'  drives  away  torment. 
Ef  ye  starts  ter  swoon  argin,  jest  chaw  hit." 

Juanita  repressed  her  amusement. 

"  You  see,  dear,"  she  declared.  "  There's  one  very 
wonderful  thing  you  know,  that  I  didn't  know.  And 
don't  forget  when  we  meet  again  we  are  old  friends." 

Then,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  as  she  rode 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  73 

on,  Juanita  saw  the  figures  of  both  Fletch  and  Jeb  cross 
the  fence  at  the  far  side  of  the  yard,  and  turn  into  the 
mountain  thicket.  Each  carried  a  rifle  cradled  in  his 
bent  elbow. 

•  •*••••• 

When  just  before  sunset  yesterday  afternoon  a  ver- 
dict of  acquittal  for  Cal  Douglas  had  come  from  the 
jury  room,  the  town  of  Peril  had  once  more  held  its 
breath  and  doors  had  closed  and  the  streets  had  cleared 
of  such  as  wished  to  remain  non-combatants.  But  with 
no  comment  or  criticism,  Milt  McBriar  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  out  of  town,  shaping  his  course  over  the 
hills  toward  his  own  house.  Following  his  example 
with  equal  quiet,  his  kinsmen  mounted,  too,  and  disap- 
peared. 

As  for  Cal  Douglas,  he  reserved  any  enthusiasm  his 
vindication  may  have  brought  to  his  heart  until  he  was 
back  again  in  the  depths  of  the  hills.  He  and  his  kins- 
men turned  their  horses  by  a  shorter  and  steeper  trail 
to  the  house  where  the  dance  was  going  forward  with 
shuffling  and  fiddling  and  passing  of  the  jug. 

When  Milt  McBriar  and  his  fellows  started  home  an 
informer  or  two  from  the  Havey  ranks  kept  them  in 
view,  themselves  unseen,  until  they  passed  through  the 
gap  and  started  down  the  other  side  of  the  ridge  into 
their  own  domain. 

That  they  were  being  so  watched  was  either  known  to 
the  McBriars  or  assumed  by  them.  But  a  picked  squad 
on  fresh  mounts  was  waiting  over  there  in  a  place  where 
the  road  ran  deep  through  forest  and  laurel,  and  this 
squad  was  equipped  with  repeating  rifles.  Milt  Mc- 
Briar himself  did  not  go  back  with  them.  He  had 


74  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

made  all  his  arrangements  in  advance,  and  it  was  not 
seemly  that  the  chief  himself  should  take  a  personal 
part  in  an  execution  which  he  had  decreed. 

"  Let  me  hear  the  news,  boys,"  he  had  said  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand,  and  then  he  had  ridden  on,  still  re- 
flective and  calm  of  mien  toward  his  own  house  from 
which  the  smoke  rose  in  the  distance. 

The  house  where  the  dance  was  being  held  stood  be- 
between  the  knees  of  two  hills  and  before  the  pocket  in 
"which  it  had  been  built  ran  the  road,  following  the 
twistings  of  Tribulation.  It  was  a  larger  house  than 
most,  hereabouts,  and  had  in  the  same  enclosure  an- 
other building  which  had  beforetimes  been  a  wayside 
store.  It  was  in  this  store  that  the  floor  had  been 
cleared  for  dancing.  It  was  there  that  the  fiddles  sang 
and  the  broganed  feet  shuffled  to  the  ancient  hoe-down 
and  jig  of  the  hills,  which  have  never  known  a  round 
dance. 

In  the  three  rooms  of  the  house  proper  and  about  its 
tight-trodden  yard  stood  such  as  had  wearied  of  danc- 
ing, and  here  the  jug  was  passed. 

Near  midnight  a  half-dozen  men,  who  had  not  been 
invited,  rode  carefully  over  an  almost  obliterated  trail 
which  wound  blindly  through  the  hills  at  the  back  of 
the  place  and  hitched  their  horses  in  a  rock-surrounded 
hollow  a  half  mile  from  the  house.  Other  horses  and 
mules  were  hitched  all  along  the  county  road,  but  these 
belonged  to  the  legitimate  guests. 

As  the  half-dozen  men  whose  arrival  had  been  so 
cautiously  accomplished  began  slipping  down,  each 
holding  his  own  course  in  the  cover  of  the  laurel,  there 
was  nothing  to  indicate  that  any  warning  had  gone 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  76 

ahead  of  them.  The  shadows  fell  deep  and  impenetrable 
in  patches  of  cobalt.  The  ridges  stood  up  boldly 
against  a  sky  in  which  innummerable  stars  and  the  band 
of  the  Milky  Way  were  pallid  ghosts  of  light  undone  by 
the  moon's  magnificence. 

From  the  houses  with  their  yellow  windows  and  their 
open  doors  came  no  note  of  apprehension  —  no  inti- 
mation of  suspicion.  A  medley  of  voices,  a  din  of  scrap- 
ing feet  and  the  whine  and  boom  of  fiddles  gave  out  a 
careless  chorus  to  the  night. 

Slowly  with  an  adept  craft  that  hardly  broke  a  twig 
underfoot,  three  of  the  new  arrivals  hitched  their  way 
forward  to  a  point  of  vantage  down  near  the  road. 

They  went  crouched  low,  holding  to  the  shadows  with 
rifles  thrust  out  ahead,  and  faces  almost  smiling  in 
their  grim  foretaste  of  sure  success.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments they  would  have  before  them  the  doors  and  win- 
dows as  lighted  targets.  Then  whoever  saw  Cal  Doug- 
las in  his  front  would  crook  forefinger  on  trigger  and 
the  error  of  the  Jury  would  be  rectified.  The  others 
would  send  a  volley  at  random  for  good  measure. 

It  was  almost  too  easy.  It  seemed  a  shame  to  snatch 
a  full  and  red  revenge  with  such  scant  effort.  To  be 
sure  a  moment  later  there  would  be  a  wrathful  flood  of 
men  rushing  out  of  the  pandemonium  to  rake  and  search 
the  hillsides,  but  there  would  first  come  the  panic-ridden 
instant  of  utter  surprise  —  and  that  would  be  enough. 

Then  as  the  foremost  figure,  crouching  in  easy  range 
of  a  window,  braced  himself  on  one  knee  and  peered  for- 
ward under  his  upturned  hat  brim,  there  came  the  re- 
ports of  several  rifles  —  but  they  were  not  the  rifles 
of  the  McBriar  squad,  and  they  came  not  from  the  hills 


76  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

in  front,  but  from  the  laurel  at  the  back.  They  broke 
from  directly  between  the  carefully  picked  squad  and 
its  horses. 

The  man  who  had  braced  his  knee  and  cocked  his 
rifle  gave  a  brief  gurgling  sound  as  an  oath  was  stifled 
off  in  a  hemorrhage  of  the  throat,  and  pitched  forward 
on  his  face.  After  that  the  figure  lay  without  stirring, 
its  own  blood  blackening  the  rifle  whose  trigger  guard 
pressed  against  its  forehead. 

The  doors  vomited  men.  There  was  a  trailing  and 
ragged  outburst  of  firearms  and  many  dark  figures 
plunged  here  and  there  across  the  silvered  spaces  where 
the  shadows  did  not  fall. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  scheme  that  had  germinated  back  of  the  con- 
templative and  seemingly  resigned  eyes  of  Milt 
McBriar  had  borne  its  fruit  of  surprise  and  death 
—  but  so  far  as  the  tally  showed  the  surprise  and  death 
had  recoiled  entirely  upon  the  would-be  avengers. 

Of  the  six  men  who  had  crept  down  three  had  lain 
within  one  hundred  yards  of  the  house  when  the  shots 
came  from  their  rear.  The  other  three  were  off  to  the 
side  ready  to  bring  up  the  horses  as  close  as  might  prove 
safe  when  the  moment  came  for  flight.  But  now  they, 
too,  found  themselves  cut  off.  Had  the  man  who  fired 
on  the  man  who  was  about  to  fire,  waited  an  instant 
longer  there  would  have  been  more  deaths  than  one. 
His  colleagues  would  then  have  been,  like  himself,  cov- 
ering their  respective  victims,  victims  who  confidently 
thought  themselves  executioners.  But  as  it  was  they 
had  not  quite  yet  worked  themselves  into  positions  un- 
trammeled  by  intervening  rock  and  timber.  The  man 
who  fired  first,  knew  that  for  he  had  not  heard  the  per- 
fectly imitated  quaver  of  "  scritch-owls  "  which  was  to 
signify  a  common  readiness.  But  as  he  eyed  his 
crouching  victim  across  his  rifle  sights  he  had  also  been 
able  to  look  beyond  him,  and  had  seen  the  figure  of  Cal 
Douglas  pause  at  the  lighted  window.  He  knew  that 
to  wait  a  moment  would  be  to  wait  too  long.  So  the 

others  had  to  fire  blindly  through  black  undergrowth 

77 


78  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

at  speeding  shadows  —  and  they  missed.  The  fleeing 
murder  squad  melted  back  into  the  black  timber  and 
some  of  them,  signaling  with  the  call  of  frog  and  owl, 
came  together  in  temporary  safety.  They  dared  not 
go  to  their  own  horses,  since  they  might  be  discovered 
in  the  effort.  The  road  that  led  into  McBriar  country 
would  be  watched.  If  they  were  to  carry  away  unpunc- 
tured  skins  they  must  flee  the  other  way  —  into  the 
Havey  territory  and  astride  stolen  Havey  horses.  It 
was  every  man  for  himself,  and  they  had  not  paused  to 
count  noses.  They  hurriedly  swung  themselves  into 
saddles  at  the  remote  end  of  the  line  of  hitched  mounts 
and  galloped  pell-mell  down  the  road  toward  the  cabin 
of  Fletch  McNash. 

When  the  theft  of  the  horses  was  discovered,  Anse 
Havey  sent  pursuing  parties  to  ride  the  roads  in  both 
directions. 

It  had  seemed  to  Havey  wiser  to  withhold  his  warning 
from  all  save  those  whom  he  needed  to  use.  To  all  the 
rest  the  affair  had  come  without  warning,  and  the  hue 
and  cry  which  followed  the  rifle  shots  was  genuine  in 
its  excitement. 

But  in  a  very  few  minutes  the  pandemonium  fell  away 
to  quiet,  and  sullenness  supplanted  the  shouting.  The 
mountains  behind,  where  several  men  were  stealthily 
seeking  escape  and  many  others  were  stalking  them,  lay 
silent  in  the  moonlight.  Here  and  there  an  owl  quav- 
ered and  a  frog  boomed,  and  some  were  not  owls  and 
frogs,  but  men,  calling  as  lost  quail  call  at  twilight  when 
the  covey  has  been  scattered  under  fire. 

A  hundred  yards  beyond  the  window  a  small  and  in- 
quisitive knot  of  men  gathered  around  a  figure  that  had 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  79 

hunched  forward,  sprawling  on  a  cocked  rifle.  Some 
one  turned  the  figure  up  and  straightened  its  limbs  so 
that  they  should  not  stiffen  in  such  grotesquerie  of  at- 
titude. The  face  with  the  yellow  lantern  light  shining 
down  on  it  was  the  face  of  a  boy  of  twenty.  Its  thin  lips 
were  set  in  a  grim  smile  of  satisfaction,  for  Death  had 
overtaken  him  without  a  suspicion  of  its  coming. 

Perhaps  had  a  photograph  of  his  retina  been  taken 
it  would  have  disclosed  the  portrait  of  Cal  Douglas 
pausing  at  the  open  window. 

"  Hit's  Little  Nash  McKay,"  exclaimed  a  surprised 
voice,  using  the  diminutive  which  in  the  mountains  takes 
the  place  of  Junior  and  stays  with  a  man  well  on  in  life. 
The  victim  who  had  been  designated  to  avenge  the  death 
of  Noah  McKay  had  been,  Noah  McKay's  younger 
brother. 

Meanwhile  the  pursuing  horsemen  were  gaining 
slowly  on  those  that  fled.  The  murder  squad  had  failed 
and  must  bear  back  to  Milt  McBriar,  if  they  ever  got 
back,  a  narrative  of  frustrated  effort.  They  were 
bitterly  angry  and  proportionately  desperate.  So  as 
they  clattered  along  the  empty  road,  meeting  no  enemy 
whom  they  could  shoot  down  in  appeasement  of  their 
wrath  and  chagrin,  they  satisfied  themselves  with  rais- 
ing their  war  cry  for  the  benefit  of  the  sleeping  cabins. 

A  little  distance  beyond  Fletch  McNash's  place  lay 
a  cross-trail  by  which  they  might  find  a  circuitous  way 
back  over  the  ridge,  but  it  was  too  steep  and  broken  to 
ride.  They  could  make  better  time  on  foot  over  the 
"  roughs,"  so  there  they  abandoned  their  mounts,  and 
plunged  into  the  timber.  When  the  pursuers  came  up 
with  the  discarded  horses  they  realized  that  further 


80  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

effort  "  in  the  night-time "  would  be  bootless.  Yet 
since  the  heaving  flanks  and  panting  nostrils  of  the 
horses  testified  that  they  had  been  only  a  few  minutes 
late,  they  took  a  last  chance  and  plunged  into  the 
thicket. 

There  a  single  defiant  shot,  sent  from  a  long  way 
up  the  slope,  was  their  only  challenge,  and  their  vol- 
ley of  reply,  fired  at  the  flash,  was  merely  a  retort  of 
hatred.  But  even  in  the  isolation  of  the  hills  certain 
news  travels  on  wings,  and  the  morning  would  find 
every  cabin  dweller  wearing  a  face  of  grim  and  sullen 
realization.  The  phrase  which  Fletch  McNash  had 
whispered  to  his  boy  would  travel  to  the  headwaters 
of  every  fork,  and  the  faces  of  the  women  would  once 
more  wear  the  drawn  misery  of  anxiety  for  their  men. 

It  was  into  this  newly  charged  atmosphere  that 
Juanita  Holland  and  her  missionary  guide  rode  in  the 
morning  mists.  The  face  of  the  preacher  still  bore 
something  of  last  night's  torture  and  despair,  for 
his  eyes  were  looking  ahead  and  foresaw  the  undoing, 
in  a  few  fierce  moments  of  passion,  of  what  he  had  so 
uncouthly,  but  sincerely,  labored  through  years  to  ac- 
complish. 

He  had  planned  to  take  the  girl  to  the  gap  in  the 
ridge,  because  it  was  remote  from  a  railroad  and  no 
section  stood  in  greater  need  of  schooling.  If  she 
meant  to  set  up  a  serviceable  school  in  this  territory, 
—  unless  it  were  to  be  limited  to  one  faction  of  the 
feud  —  its  doors  must  stand  open  at  the  border,  alike 
to  the  children  of  east  and  west.  But  now  the  ridge 
would  be  an  armed  frontier. 


81 

Good  Anse  Talbott  was  in  many  ways  as  inade- 
quate an  ally  as  he  had  at  first  seemed  to  Juanita.  He 
was  both  narrow  and  illiterate,  but  he  was  earnest. 
He  knew  the  life  and  people  —  and  — 

"  As  a  Pictish  shepherd  dog  among  his  Pictish  sheep, 

So  went   he  in  and  out  of  them  where  they  stood  breathing 

deep, 

Half  frightened  and  half  loving, 
He  could  make  them  laugh  or  weep, 
Whose  lives  and  deaths  were  his  to  him,  whose  vigil  and  whose 

sleep." 

In  his  ignorant  zeal,  he  had  thought  out  many  things 
which  she  could  not  realize  until  she  had  crossed  the 
first  great  barrier  of  prejudice  and  learned  many  les- 
sons of  sympathy.  So  she  had  trusted  herself  to  his 
guidance,  and  as  they  plodded  on  and  he  rode  in  si- 
lence, she  was  puzzled  and  a  little  hurt  by  his  uncom- 
municativeness. 

The  way  at  first  followed  the  creek  bank,  but  soon 
they  were  climbing  steeply  upward  and  the  mists  went 
with  them;  lifting  and  giving  way  to  the  clarity  of 
day.  The  sun,  had  appeared  above  the  dim  summits 
now,  not  yet  in  the  golden  triumph  of  full  victory,  but 
like  a  polished  disc  of  platinum,  that  slowly  passed 
through  pallor  to  rosiness  and  through  rosiness  to 
flame.  A  dozen  miracles  of  exquisite  and  ephemeral 
beauty  hung  between  sunlight  and  mist  like  dreams  at 
the  pale  heart  of  rfft  opal.  A  scrap  of  bird's-egg  blue 
flashed  in  the  gray  sky  and  a  tilting  cornfield,  far  up 
the  mountain,  gave  back  a  response  of  spirit  emerald. 
Upon  the  foliage  of  pine  and  oak  and  poplar  were 
breathed  transitory  and  gossamer  hues  that  were  like 


82  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  fugitive  souls  of  colors.  At  last  the  veil  was  rent 
and  the  vapors  went  floating  away  in  tattered  wisps  and 
streamers  of  defeat.  Through  rifts  in  the  nearer  hills 
rose  other  hills  where  the  green  turned  blue  with  dis- 
tance to  the  last  line  of  smoky  purple  that  merged  and 
wedded  with  the  sky. 

It  was  all  very  beautiful,  but  she  had  not  come  here 
only  to  listen  to  the  song  of  June.  So  at  last  the  girl 
rode  resolutely  up  to  her  escort's  saddle-skirts  and 
asked,  "  Brother  Talbott,  hadn't  you  better  tell  me 
what  it  all  means  ?  " 

The  missionary  lifted  a  face  that  was  almost  hag- 
gard. 

"  Hit  means,"  he  said  with  no  idea  of  irreverence, 
"  thet  Satan's  got  both  under-holts  —  an'  God  help 
this  country." 

She  listened  with  a  sickening  heart  while  he  told  her 
many  things  she  needed  to  know  until  he  changed  the 
subject  and  assured  her  that  the  Widow  Everson,  with 
whom  she  was  to  stop,  had  a  sizable  house  where  she 
would  be  comfortable. 

"  Are  all  the  houses  in  this  country  like  the  one 
where  we  stopped  last  night?  "  she  inquired. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  he  promptly  informed  her  with  a 
solemnity  which  belied  any  spirit  of  the  humorous. 
"  Back  a  piece  in  ther  hills  amongst  ther  branch-water 
folks  thar's  lots  of  houses  whar,  es  ther  sayin'  goes,  ye 
hain't  hardly  got  room  ter  cuss  a  dawg  'thout  gittin' 
yore  teeth  full  of  ha'r.  But  es  fur  es  thet's  con- 
sarned,"  he  apologetically  added,  "  a  man  hain't 
rightly  got  no  call  ter  cuss  a  dawg  nohow." 

As  the  day  advanced  they  passed  a  cabin  that  stood 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  83 

barred  of  door  and  smokeless  of  chimney ;  deserted  since 
yesterday.  "  Thet  house,"  he  told  her,  "  b'longs  ter 
Bud  McBriar.  He  married  a  Havey  an*  I  reckon 
they've  done  moved  acrost  ther  ridge  this  morninV 

Juanita  looked  at  the  abandoned  place  and  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  of  the  conditions  that  had  urged 
such  flight. 

Yet  as  they  rode  through  cloistered  hollows  where 
the  greens  were  deep  and  the  air  moist,  and  the  sun 
sent  only  vagrant  flakes  of  gold  filtering  through  the 
branches  it  all  seemed  incredible.  The  melody  of  peace 
and  joy  poured  from  the  swelling  throats  of  cardinal 
and  thrush  down  there  and  tiny  shoals  of  minnows 
darted  about  the  splashing  feet  of  their  mules  in  creek- 
bed  pools. 

The  hills  grew  with  their  progress  until  those  behind 
them  were  only  the  little  brothers  of  those  ahead,  for 
they  were  steadily  plodding  toward  the  ridge  of  the 
divide.  At  last,  the  girl  saw,  still  a  long  way  off,  a 
fertile  little  valley  where  the  corn  seemed  taller  and 
richer  than  in  the  scattered  "  coves  "  and  where  across  a 
table-land  she  could  make  out  a  silver  thread  of  water  — 
flowing  east.  There,  like  a  tiny  match-box,  on  a  high 
level  near  the  point  where  the  wall  of  mountain  broke 
into  a  broad  gateway  she  could  make  out  a  house.  It 
was  not  of  logs,  but  of  brick,  and  stood  in  an  enclosure 
that  looked  more  like  the  Blue  Grass  than  the  moun- 
tains. From  its  chimney  went  up  a  thread  of  smoke 
blue  and  straight  until  it  lost  itself  overhead.  Then 
the  missionary  drew  his  mule  to  a  standstill  and  raised 
one  talon-like  hand,  pointing  across  the  vista.  The  girl 
followed  the  direction  over  miles  of  forest  tops  and 


84  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

broken  hills ;  over  two  narrow  and  converging  valleys ; 
over  shadows  that  were  thrown  by  western  peaks  and 
that  crept  well  up  the  eastern  slopes  beyond.  She 
nodded  her  head  and  caught  her  breath  in  a  quick,  al- 
most gasping  intake  of  sheer  admiration. 

"  Does  ye  see  ther  brick  house  over  thar,  nigh  ther 
gap  ?  —  Thet's  Bad  Anse's  place,  an'  over  thar  acrost 
ther  ridge,  three  mile  away  by  crow-flight  an'  a  half 
day's  ride  by  ther  roads  is  whar  Milt  McBriar  dwells. 
Ye  kain't  see  hit  from  hyar." 

Juanita  followed  his  words  and  his  brown  index 
finger  and  in  her  heart  beat  something  like  the  emotions 
which  must  have  stirred  the  crusaders  when  their  eyes 
first  looked  on  the  walls  of  the  Jerusalem  they  had  come 
to  take  from  the  Saracen. 

It  was  almost  sundown  when  they  reached  the  house 
of  the  Widow  Everson,  and  at  sight  of  the  woman  stand- 
ing at  the  fence  to  meet  them  her  heart  took  strength. 
This  house  was  not  of  logs,  but  of  undressed  boards, 
with  gayly  painted  window  and  door  frames  of  red, 
and  though  two  days  ago  she  would  have  called  it  mean, 
she  had  revised  her  views  enough  to  regard  it,  now,  as 
almost  magnificent. 

The  widow  dwelt  here  with  her  two  sons,  and  the 
trio,  by  virtue  of  great  diplomacy,  had  succeeded  in 
maintaining  a  neutrality  throughout  the  strife  that 
went  on  about  them. 

The  comforts  of  the  place  were  such  as  must  give 
contentment  where  teaming  is  arduous  and  the  mail 
carrier  comes,  twice  a  week,  but  cleanliness  dwelt  there, 
and  homely  cheer  of  a  sort. 

Before  they  had  yet  entered  the  house  the  girl  saw 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  85 

a  horseman  approaching,  with  an  escort  of  several 
men  who  carried  rifles  balanced  across  their  pommels. 
They  came  from  the  east,  and  though  the  girl  did  not 
know  who  they  were,  she  recognized  that  the  central 
figure,  himself  unarmed,  was  a  person  of  consequence. 

He  was  tall  and  under  his  faded  coat  his  rather  lean 
figure  fell  into  an  attitude  of  well-muscled  strength 
despite  his  fulness  of  years.  His  face  though  calm, 
even  thoughtful,  was  more  in  cut  of  feature  than  in 
expression  the  face  of  a  man  of  tense  emotions  and 
warlike  readiness  in  quarrel.  Indeed,  features  molded 
for  antagonism  and  expression  of  reflective  composure 
seemed  paradoxically  at  variance. 

Instinctively  her  mind  flashed  back  to  a  bit  of  re- 
membered description  with  which  five  hundred  years 
before  a  French  writer  had  quaintly  depicted  another 
tribal  chief  whom  the  laws  could  not  curb,  the  portrait 
of  the  Irish  King  MacMurrough.  ..."  He  was  tall 
of  stature,  well-composed,  strong  and  active ;  his  coun- 
tenance fell  and  ferocious  to  the  eye  —  a  man  of  deed." 

Then  she  heard  the  man's  voice,  bland  and  ingratiat- 
ing. "  'Evenin',  ma'am.  No,  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  light, 
I  jest  heered  thet  Brother  Talbott  war  a-comin'  over 
hyar  an'  I  wanted  speech  with  him." 

The  missionary  nodded.  "  All  right,  Milt,"  he  said ; 
and  the  girl  knew,  as  she  had  already  suspected,  that  she 
had  before  her  the  second  of  her  chief  enemies. 

"  I  reckon  ye  all  knows  what  happened  last  night," 
she  heard  him  saying  slowly.  "  Hit  war  a  pity,  an' 
I  hears  thet  ther  Haveys  are  a-chargin'  hit  up  ergin 
me.  Thet's  nat'ral  enough,  I  reckon.  They  'lows  thet 
I'd  walk  plumb  acrost  hell  on  a  rotten  plank  ter  do  'em 


86  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

injury.  Ef  they  stopped  ter  reason  hit  out  a  spell 
they'd  recollect  thet  I  went  over  thar  ter  Peril  an'  let 
a  Jedge  thet  didn't  own  his  own  soul  an*  a  Jury  they  hed 
done  packed,  clar  one  of  their  kin  folks  fer  killin'  a 
cousin  of  mine  .  .  .  an'  thet  I  never  raised  a  hand.  I 
reckon  they  didn't  hardly  hev  no  call  ter  figger  thet  I 
was  sheered  of  them.  I  done  what  I  done  because  I 
wanted  peace.  I  was  fer  lettin'  ther  law  take  hit's 
co'se,  even  when  I  knowed  the  Co'te  war  crooked  es  a 
drunkard's  elbow." 

He  paused  and  no  one  spoke,  so  at  last  he  went  on 
again. 

"  But  Little  Nash  McKay  war  young  an'  hot- 
hearted.  He  couldn't  hardly  see  hit  in  ther  light  of 
wisdom  and  he  didn't  come  ter  me  fer  counsel.  So  he 
jest  went  hell-splittin'  over  thar  with  some  other  boys 
thet  he'd  done  over-persuaded  —  an*  he  didn't  come 
back.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry.  ...  I  was  right  fond  of  Little 
Nash,  but  I  hain't  complainin'  none.  He  started  trou- 
ble an'  he  got  hit."  Again  the  dark  giant  paused ;  then 
he  came  to  his  point.  His  voice  was  regretful,  almost 
sad,  but  tinged  with  resignation. 

"  So  Little  Nash  is  a-layin'  dead  down  thar,  an'  no 
McBriar  durstn't  venture  down  ter  fotch  his  body 
home."  He  waved  a  hand  toward  the  west,  and  the 
faces  of  his  escort  lowered.  They  seemed  the  faces 
of  men  who  "  durst "  go  anywhere,  but  their  chief  went 
on.  "  I  knowed,  Brother  Talbott,  thet  ye  sarves  Al- 
mighty God,  an'  thet  thar  hain't  no  word  ye  carries 
but  what  all  men  will  listen  ter  ye,  so  I've  done  come 
ter  ye,  in  behalf  of  Little  Nash's  maw  an'  his  women 
folks.  I  'lowed  I'd  ask  ye  ef  ye'd  ride  down  thar  and 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  87 

fotch  home  ther  body?"  The  missionary  nodded  and 
though  he  was  travel-stained  and  very  tired,  he  re- 
sponded, "  I'll  start  right  now."  Then  Milt  McBriar 
continued,  "  An'  ef  ye  sees  fit,  ye  kin  tell  Anse  Havey, 
thet  I  hain't  a  sum'  fer  peace,  but  thet  I  hain't  a 
blamin'  him  nuther,  an'  thet  ef  he  wants  ther  truce  ter 
go  on  I'm  a-willin'  ter  hev  hit  thetaway.  I  hain't 
holdin*  no  grudge  on  account  of  last  night." 


CHAPTER  X 

JUANITA'S  eyes  grew  a  little  misty  as  she  thought 
of  that  desolated  cabin  where  a  mother  and  sis- 
ters were  grieving  for  the  boy  who  had  been  "  hot- 
hearted."     Even  the  sight  of  his  older  kinsman  who 
sat  his  horse  with  such  composure  while  his  eyes  wan- 
dered off  to  the  purple  haze  of  the  far  mountains,  stirred 
in  her  an  emotion  of  sympathy.     Of  course  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  ten  acres  of  "  bottom  land  "  which  were 
to  be  little  Nash's  when  Cal  Douglas  should  have  ceased 
to  breathe,  nor  how  it  was  covetousness  and  cold  thrift 

rather  than  a  hot  heart  that  had  sent  him  out  with  his 

\-j^ 

*me  in  the  night.     She  did  not  know  that  Milt  McBriar 

had  torn  up  several  unsigned  deeds  when  the  murder 
squad  had  failed  to  earn  their  contingent  fees.  She 
only  heard  the  McBriar  say,  "  I'm  much  obleeged," 
and  saw  him  turn  his  cavalcade  east.  The  tired  mis- 
sionary started  his  mule  west  again,  and  she  herself 
followed  the  Widow  Everson  into  the  house  which  was 
for  the  time  to  be  her  home.  She  went  into  the  tiny, 
but  scrupulously  clean  room  where  an  ancient  bed  was 
gayly  spread  with  a  gaudy  home-made  quilt  and  where 
a  cracked  pitcher  and  bowl  and  a  broken  mirror 
adorned  a  home-made  washstand,  and  then  as  the 
widow  left  her,  she  rummaged  in  her  saddle-bags 
and  drew  out  a  small  leather  case.  She  sat  for  a  long 

while  silent,  in  her  shuck-bottomed  rocking  chair,  gaz- 

88 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  89 

ing  wearily  out  at  the  west  where  sunset  fires  were  be- 
ginning to  kindle,  and  where  an  old-rose  haze  was 
drowsing  over  the  valley  and  glowing  more  brightly  in 
the  twisting  ribbon  of  a  far-away  stream.  But  her  eyes 
came  often  back  from  the  panorama  out  there  to  dwell 
a  little  wistfully  on  a  photograph  in  the  leather  frame, 
and  it  was  the  picture  of  the  man  whom  she  had  sent 
away.  She  was  an  appealing  little  figure  of  loveliness, 
too  frail  and  flower-like  it  seemed  for  hard  places,  and 
the  present  wistfulness  of  clouded  eyes  and  drooping 
lips  only  made  her  the  more  appealing,  like  a  bruised 
blossom  whose  petals  are  dust-blown,  which  needs 
to  be  lifted  again  to  the  sun  and  dew.  Had  the  man 
of  the  photograph  been  there  just  then,  when  her  cour- 
age and  determination  were  at  ebb  tide,  and  had  he 
stretched  out  his  arms,  perhaps  she  would  have  shaken 
her  head  wearily  on  abstract  resolves  and  come  into  i- 
their  embrace.  But  he  was  not  there. 

In  the  quaint  conversation  of  the  Widow  Everson 
and  her  sons,  Juanita  found  so  much  of  the  amusing 
that  she  had  to  school  herself  against  too  great  an 
appreciation  of  their  utterly  unintentional  humor. 
Though  she  was  a  "  fotched-on  woman  "  to  be  taken 
on  probation  it  was  only  a  matter  of  hours  before  the 
family  capitulated,  as  people  in  general  had  a  fashion 
of  doing,  under  the  spell  of  her  graciousness  and  un- 
self-conscious  charm.  Jerry  Everson,  whom  men  ac- 
counted surly,  for  the  first  time  in  years  brushed  his 
shapeless  hat,  and  remembered  not  to  "  hang  it  on  the 
floor  "  and  Sim  Everson  hied  him  into  the  misty  woods 
at  dawn  and  brought  home  squirrels  for  her  first  break- 
fast in  his  house. 


90  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

When  from  the  front  porch,  where  the  morning-glory 
vines  had  been  carefully  cut  away  in  accordance  with 
the  country's  distaste  for  "  weeds  a  trailin'  all  over  the 
God's  blessed  face  of  a  dwellin'-house,"  she  saw  the 
mists  of  the  next  morning  dissipate,  she  already  felt 
at  home.  She  soon  came  to  recognize  that  instead  of 
going  back  east  after  a  cursory  inspection  to  draw 
plans  for  school-houses,  she  must  stay  here,  and,  as  a 
condition  precedent,  win  her  way  naturally  into  the 
confidence  of  those  whom  she  sought  to  influence.  As 
the  widow  looked  out  under  her  sunbonnet,  and  the 
two  boys  nursed  their  knees  on  the  edge  of  the  porch, 
staring  at  her  until  she  grew  painfully  conscious  of  her 
silk  stockinged  ankles  and  short  gingham  skirt,  she 
knew  that  even  if  she  could  remove  all  the  ivied  and 
towered  walls  of  her  own  university  and  set  them  down 
as  "  fur  from  here  as  a  man  kin  fling  a  cow  by  hit's 
tail "  she  still  would  be  no  nearer  success  than  she  was 
at  this  moment.  First  she  must  be  trusted  by  a  race 
distrustful  of  strangers. 

In  the  forenoon  of  her  first  day  she  left  the  house 
and,  crossing  the  tiny  garden  where  the  weeds  were 
already  growing  tall  and  rank  enough  to  hint  of  future 
ragged  victory,  she  made  her  way  by  a  narrow  trail 
that  led  to  the  crest  of  the  ridge.  The  Everson  boys 
watched  her  go  up  the  steep  path  and  nodded  their 
heads  with  grins  of  approval.  "  Thet  gal  hain't  string- 
halted  none,"  observed  Jerry,  and  Sim  replied  hotly, 
"  Stringhalted,  hell !  Thet  gal's  plumb  supple." 

Juanita  was  steering  her  course  for  a  patriarchal 
poplar  that  sent  a  straight  shaft  heavenward  at  the 
rim  of  the  crest,  opening  its  verdure  like  a  great  flag 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  91 

unfurled  on  a  mighty  parapet.  She  knew  that  up 
there  she  could  look  two  ways  across  the  divide  and 
that  her  battle  ground  would  be  spread  before  her. 

But  when  she  reached  the  place  her  breath  came 
fast  with  delight  for  she  found  there  a  natural  observa- 
tory where  save  for  the  single  poplar,  and  a  few  crest 
plumes  rising  from  the  slopes,  she  had  the  timber  tops 
all  beneath  her.  There  was  only  open  sky  above  with 
the  world  spread  out  in  mosaic  below.  It  was  such  a 
place  as  made  one  resentful  of  the  lack  of  wings,  and 
eager  to  leap  upward  into  the  unbroken  blue  to  soar 
with  the  hawks  and  eagles.  So  at  least  it  seemed  to 
Juanita,  but  Juanita  was  imaginative.  She  had  clung 
to  her  faith  in  fairies  past  the  ordinary  years  of  such 
belief  and  she  still  found  a  fairy-like  companionship 
in  the  spirit  of  flowers  and  trees. 

She  looked  to  the  east  and  line  after  line  of  hills 
went  over  and  melted  into  the  sky.  She  looked  to  the 
west  and  there,  too,  they  rose  phalanx  on  phalanx  to 
dissolve  in  a  smoky  haze  that  effaced  the  horizon.  It 
looked  as  if  in  a  majesty  of  relentlessness  they  reached 
from  sunrise  to  sunset,  and  so,  as  far  as  the  locked-in- 
life  of  their  people  went,  they  might. 

With  precipice  and  torrent  they  shut  out  the  world, 
sweeping  away  roads  and  all  the  changes  that  roads 
bring. 

They  offered  sanctuary  to  the  refugee,  and  safety  to 
their  sons  in  crime  and  secure  eyries  to  their  eagles. 

In  them  all,  so  far  as  she  knew,  was  one  person,  and 
that  person  her  weak  self,  who  stood  for  altering  them. 
As  she  gazed  down  to  the  west,  she  saw  the  thread  of 
smoke  that  went  up  like  a  contemptuous  challenge  from 


92  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  house  of  Bad  Anse  Havey  and  the  square  brick 
walls  of  his  fortress-like  abode.  Then  she  looked  east 
and  down  there,  where  a  creek  bed  caught  the  sky  like  a 
splinter  of  blue  glass,  lay  another  building  with  open 
space  about  it  and  cornfields  stretching  farther  away. 
It  was  a  squat  building  of  logs,  and  she  knew  from  its 
size  and  its  block-house  stanchness  that  its  thread  of 
smoke  went  up  from  the  hearth  of  the  McBriar. 

Resolutely,  she  threw  back  her  slender  shoulders  and 
quoted  some  favorite  verses. 

"  It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree, 
And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart; 

Only  the  castle  moodily 

Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free 
And  gloomed  by  itself  apart; 

The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up 

Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher  plant's  cup." 

She  nodded  her  head  and  looked  down  again.  "  And 
the  castle,"  she  declared  to  herself,  "sha'n't  go  on 
rebuffing.  Neither  castle.  That's  what  I'm  here  for." 
She  knew  that  it  was  only  two  hundred  miles  east 
from  where  she  stood  to  the  blue  line  of  the  Atlantic 
coast  and  that  between  lay  the  culture  of  Virginia, 
Mother  of  States.  Less  than  two  hundred  miles  west 
stretched  the  rich  smoothness  of  the  Blue  Grass  where 
the  brethren  of  these  same  people  had  won  through  and 
founded  the  "  sittlements  of  Old  Kaintuck."  But 
nearer  at  hand  on  either  side,  and  infinitely  more  po- 
tential stood  the  brick  house  where  a  long-dead  Havey 
had  owned  negro  slaves,  and  the  log  house  where  a 
McBriar  of  other  years  had  cried  for  abolition,  and 
between  them  the  war  was  not  yet  ended. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  93 

She  stood  there  a  long  while  and  finally  she  saw 
where  for  a  little  space  the  road  ran  near  the  brick 
house,  unshielded  by  the  woods,  a  straggling  little 
cortege.  At  its  front  rode  a  stoop-shouldered  man  in 
whom  even  at  that  far  distance  she  thought  she  recog- 
nized the  missionary.  Behind  him  came  a  few  horse- 
men riding  in  two  squads  and  between  the  squads 
crawled  a  "  jolt-wagon  "  drawn  by  mules.  She  knew 
that  the  Haveys  were  bringing  back  to  the  frontier 
the  enemy's  dead,  and  she  shuddered  at  the  cold  reality. 
It  may  have  been  three  hours  later  that  Good  Anse 
Talbott  rode  up  to  the  Widow  Everson's.  When  the 
girl,  who  had  returned  long  ago  from  the  crest,  came 
out  to  meet  him  at  the  door  she  found  him  talking  there 
with  Milt  McBriar  who  also  had  ridden  up,  but  from 
the  other  direction. 

"  Anse  Havey  'lows,"  the  preacher  was  saying, 
"  thet  he  hes  done  fetched  home  ther  body  of  Little 
Nash  McKay,  an  thet  ther  boy  was  shot  ter  death 
a-layin'  in  tlier  la'rel  a  hundred  paces  from  the  winder 
whar  Cal  Douglas  was  a-standin'." 

"  I've  done  already  acknowledged  thet,"  declared 
Milt,  in  a  voice  into  which  crept  a  trace  of  truculent 
sullenness. 

The  missionary  nodded.  "  I  hain't  quite  through 
yit,  Milt,"  he  went  on  evenly,  and  the  girl  who  stood 
leaning  against  the  door  frame  caught  for  an  in- 
stant a  sparkle  of  zealous  earnestness  in  his  weary 
eyes. 

"  Anse  is  willin'  ter  take  yore  hand  on  this  truce. 
He's  willin'  ter  stand  pledge  thet  ther  Haveys  keeps 
faith.  But  I'm  a  preacher  of  the  gawspel  of  God,  Milt, 


94  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

and  I  don't  'low  ter  be  no  go-between  without  both  of 
you  men  does  keep  faith." 

Milt  McBriar  stiffened  resentfully  and  his  brows  con- 
tracted blackly  under  his  hat  brim. 

"  Does  ye  doubt  thet  I'll  do  what  I  says  ?  "  he  in- 
quired in  a  voice  too  soft  for  sincerity.  The  mission- 
ary did  not  drop  his  steady  and  compelling  eyes  from 
the  gaze  direct.  It  was  as  if  he  were  reading  through 
the  pupils  of  his  protagonist,  and  searching  the  dark 
heart. 

"  I  aims  ter  see  thet  ye  both  starts  out  fair,  Milt," 
he  declared  still  quietly.  "  An'  ter  thet  end  I  aims  ter 
admonish  ye  both  on  ther  terms  of  this  hyar  meetin' 
atween  ye." 

For  an  instant  Milt  McBriar's  semblance  of  calm 
reflectiveness  slipped  from  him,  and  his  voice  rose  rasp- 
ingly.  "  Did  Anse  Havey  lam  ye  thet  speech  ?  " 

Good  Anse  Talbott  shook  his  head  patiently.  "  No. 
I  told  Anse  ther  same  thing  I'm  a-tellin'  you.  Neither 
Anse  ner  ther  four  men  that  fetches  ther  body  will 
hev  any  sort  of  weepon  about  'em  when  they  comes 
acrost  thet  stile.  Ye've  got  ter  give  me  yore  hand, 
thet  none  of  yore  men  hain't  a-goin'  ter  be  armed. 
I'm  a  servant  of  ther  Most  High  God."  For  an  in- 
stant fire  blazed  in  the  preacher's  eyes  and  his  voice 
mounted  with  fervor.  "  Fer  years  I've  done  sought  ter 
teach  His  grace  an'  His  hatred  of  murder  ter  ther 
people  of  these  hyar  hills.  .  .  .  When  you  two  men 
shakes  hands  on  this  hyar  truce  I  aims  ter  be  standin' 
by  with  a  rifle-gun  in  my  hands  an'  ef  I  sees  anything 
crooked,  I'm  goin'  ter  use  hit." 

The  dark  giant  stood  for  a  time  silent,  then  he  gravely 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  95 

nodded  his  head.  "  Them  terms  suits  me,"  he  said 
briefly. 

The  two  men  walked  down  to  the  fence  and  separated 
there,  going  in  opposite  directions. 

A  few  minutes  later  Juanita,  still  standing  fas- 
cinatedly in  the  doorway  was  looking  out  across  the 
shoulder  of  the  missionary.  He  presided  at  the 
threshold  with  grave  eyes,  and,  even  after  these  peace- 
ful years  with  something  of  familiar  caress  in  the  way 
his  brown  hand  lay  on  his  rifle  lock.  Then  the  girl 
saw  a  strange  and  primitive  ratification  of  treaty. 

On  either  side  of  the  little  porch  was  gathered  a  group 
of  solemn  men,  mostly  bearded,  mostly  coatless  and  all 
unarmed.  In  front  of  those,  at  the  right,  stood  Anse 
Havey,  his  eyes  still  the  dominant  feature  of  the  pic- 
ture. 

Over  across  from  him  was  the  taller  and  older  chief- 
tain of  the  other  clan.  They  held  the  picture  gravely, 
with  a  courtesy  that  cloaked  their  hatred.  Out  in  the 
road  was  the  "  j  olt-wagon "  and  in  its  deep  bed  the 
girl  could  see  the  canvas  that  covered  its  burden.  As 
Bad  Anse  took  his  place  at  the  front  of  his  escort,  his 
gaze  met  that  of  Juanita.  He  did  not  speak,  but  for 
an  instant  she  saw  his  face  harden  and  his  eyes  narrow 
and  his  lips  set  themselves.  It  was  the  glance  of  one 
who  has  been  lashed  across  the  face  and  who  cannot 
strike  back,  but  who  will  not  soon  forget. 

This  time  the  girl's  eyes  did  not  drop  and  certainly 
they  held  no  hint  of  relenting  or  plea  for  forgive- 
ness. 

The  head  of  the  Haveys  turned  from  her  and  began 
speaking.  "  I  got  your  message,  Milt,"  he  said 


96  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

casually,  "  an'  I  reckon  you  got  my  answer.  I've 
brought  back  Little  Nash." 

"  I'm  obleeged  ter  ye."  The  McBriar  paused,  then 
volunteered :  "  Ef  ther  boy  had  took  counsel  of  me 
this  thing  wouldn't  never  hev  happened." 

For  some  moments  Bad  Anse  Havey  looked  deep  into 
his  enemy's  eyes,  then  he  nodded. 

"  Milt,"  he  carelessly  announced,  while  the  ghost  of 
an  ironical  smile  played  in  his  eyes  though  it  left  his 
lips  grave,  "  I've  got  several  hosses  an'  mules  down 
thar  in  my  barn  that  we  found  hitched  out  in  ther  tim- 
ber when  Nash  an'  his  friends  took  to  the  la'rel." 
Again  he  paused  and  studied  the  faces  of  the  McBriar 
men  before  he  went  on.  "  One  of  'em  is  your  own  roan 
mare,  Milt.  One  of  'em  b'longs  ter  Sam  thar  and  one 
of  'em  is  Bob's  thar."  He  pointed  out  each  man  as  he 
spoke.  "  Ye  can  get  'em  any  time  ye  send  down  thar 
for  'em." 

The  girl  caught  her  breath,  and  despite  her  dislike 
acknowledged  the  cool  insolence  with  which  Anse  had 
parried  Milt's  disclaimer  of  any  foreknowledge  of  a 
plot.  The  McBriar  replied  only  with  a  scowl ;  so  Anse 
contemplatively  continued,  as  though  to  himself, 

"  It's  right  smart  of  a  pity  for  a  feller  thet  goes 
out  shootin'  in  the  night-time  to  take  a  kinsman's 
horse  —  without  askin'  his  counsel.  It  might  lead  to 
some  misunderstandin'." 

A  baleful  glare  flashed  deep  in  the  eyes  of  the  taller 
man,  and  from  the  henchmen  at  his  back  came  an  un- 
easy shuffle  of  brogans. 

But  the  voice  of  Good  Anse  Talbott  interrupted  and 
relieved  the  tension.  "  Stiddy  thar,  men,"  he  quietly 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  97 

admonished,  "  you-all  didn't  hardly  meet  hyar  ter  talk 
'bout  hosses  nohow.  I'll  lead  them  nags  back  myself, 
Milt." 

Anse  Havey  stepped  forward  and  extended  his  hand. 

"  I  gives  ye  my  hand,  Milt  McBriar,"  he  said, 
"  thet  there  truce  goes  on." 

"An'  I  gives  ye  mine,"  rejoined  the  other. 

After  a  perfunctory  shake  the  two  turned  together 
and  went  down  the  steps.  The  girl  saw  both  squads 
lifting  the  covered  burden  from  the  wagon  and  carry- 
ing it  around  the  turn  of  the  road  where  a  second 
wagon  waited.  She  believed  that  the  feud  was  ended, 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  either  of  the  principals  whose  hands 
had  joined,  parted  with  great  trust  in  the  integrity 
of  the  other's  intentions.  It  is  certain  that  one  of 
them  at  least  was  already  making  plans  for  the  future, 
not  at  all  in  accordance  with  that  compact  of  peace. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AS  days  grew  into  weeks  Bad  Anse  Havey  heard 
nothing  of  the  establishing  of  a  school  at   the 
head  of  Tribulation,  though  all  the  gossip  of  the 
countryside   which   might    interest    a    dictator   filtered 
through  the  valleys  and  gorges  to  his  house. 

He  smiled  a  little  over  the  copy  of  Plutarch's 
"Lives,"  which  was  the  companion  of  his  leisure  mo- 
ments, and  held  his  counsel.  While  he  thought  of 
Juanita  herself  with  a  resentment  which  sprang  from 
hurt  pride,  he  felt  for  her,  as  a  menace  to  his  power, 
only  contempt.  But  Juanita's  resolve  had  in  no  wise 
weakened.  She  had  seen  that  her  original  ideas  had 
all  been  chaotic  and  born  of  ignorance,  and  she  was,  like 
a  good  and  patient  general,  pulling  all  the  pins  out  of 
her  little  war  map  and  drafting  a  completely  new 
plan  of  campaign. 

There  was  no  weakening  of  resolve.  Each  day  she 
went  up  to  the  tall  poplar  that  commanded  the  valleys, 
east  and  west,  and  each  morning  with  the  glint  of  bat- 
tle in  her  violet  eyes  she  repeated  to  herself  in  anathema 
on  both  houses  "  Carthago  delenda  est." 

She  meant  to  spend  as  much  time  as  was  necessary 
in  simply  learning  to  know  these  people  and  making 
them  feel  her  sympathy.  With  Good  Anse  Talbott, 
she  rode  up  dwindling  water  courses  to  the  hovels  of 

the  "  branch-water  folks  "  and  accompanied  him  where- 

08 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  99 

soever  the  cry  of  sickness  or  distress  sent  up  its  call, 
and  since  his  introduction  was  an  open  sesame,  she 
found  welcomes  where  she  went. 

Dust-covered  in  the  station  at  Peril,  were  trunks 
which  she  had  not  been  able  to  bring  across  the  creek- 
beds  and  quicksands,  and  she  smiled  as  she  thought  of  a 
still  more  insane  piece  of  foolishness  of  which  she  had 
been  guilty  in  her  dense  initial  ignorance.  Besides  the 
trunks  there  stood  there  in  the  little  baggage-room  a 
crated  piano !  Whenever  she  saw  a  patient  teamster 
struggling  and  maneuvering  for  ten  minutes  over  one 
twisting  series  of  broken  ledges  or  "  man-powering " 
out  of  the  way  fallen  wreckage  of  last  night's  storm  she 
thought  of  that  piano  and  laughed. 

But  even  the  small  wardrobe  of  her  saddle-bags  was 
beyond  her  needs  now.  To  be  too  obviously  a  "  fur- 
riner  "  meant  to  appear,  in  native  eyes,  "  stuck-up  " 
and  to  lose  influence.  So  she  adopted  plain  calicos  and 
sunbonnets  like  those  worn  by  the  women  about  her, 
though  even  native  severity  of  line  and  material  could 
not  take  from  her  figure  its  trim  distinction  of  grace 
and  beauty.  Just  as  she  amended  her  dress  so  she 
also  amended  her  speech  to  simplified  and  homely 
words. 

It  was  all  a  very  sincere  effort  to  adapt  herself,  a 
passionate  determination.  .  .  . 

"  In  patience  to  abide, 
To  veil  the  threat  of  terror 

And  check  the  show  of  pride; 
By  open  speech  and  simple, 

An  hundred  times  made  plain* 
To  seek  another's  profit, 

And  work  another's  gain." 


100  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

And  soon  the  slight  figure,  that  walked  with  an  al- 
most lyric  grace,  yet  with  a  boyish  strength  and  lithe- 
ness,  became  familiar  along  the  roads  and  trails. 

Instead  of  asking,  "Who  mout  thet  be?"  moun- 
taineers nodded  and  said,  "  Thet's  her;  "  and  some 
women  added,  "  God  bless  thet  child." 

She  had  been  into  many  gloomy  cabins  that  repelled 
the  brightness  of  the  summer  sun,  and  she  had  been 
more  like  sunlight  than  anything  that  had  ever  come 
through  their  narrow  doors  before.  The  children  loved 
her  and  she  loved  them.  And  she  marveled  at  their 
numbers.  It  was  June  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  in 
almost  every  family  a  new  baby  was  struggling  through 
its  first  months  of  unsanitary  gloom  and  squalor.  She 
looked  at  their  mothers,  prematurely  old  by  the  pain  of 
their  frequent  coming,  then  at  their  gaunt,  sullen  fathers 
and  she  prayerfully  resolved  that  these  newcomers 
should  know  the  wholesomeness  of  life;  should  be  lib- 
erated from  their  heritage  of  drudgery  and  hate. 

One  wild  afternoon  Good  Anse  stopped  by  the  gate 
and  called  to  her.  Clouds  were  piling  and  tumbling 
along  the  ridges  in  angry  ramparts  of  raw  and  leaden 
heaviness.  Now  and  then  a  cannonading  of  thunder 
rumbled  with  its  echoes  through  the  mountains.  Al- 
ready great  drops  were  falling  and  the  missionary's 
slicker  shone  like  black  armor. 

"  Thar's  a-goin'  ter  be  a  bornin'  at  ther  Galloway 
house,  I  reckon,"  he  said  simply.  "  Thar  hain't  no 
doctor  nigher  than  Peril  an*  ther  woman's  mighty  puny. 
I  reckon  ye  durstn't  hardly  ride  over  thar,  would  ye?  " 
Then  he  added,  "  Hit's  ten  mile  by  crow-flight  an'  hit's 
a-comin'  on  ter  storm." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  101 

The  preacher,  who  from  the  spur  of  necessity  was 
something  of  a  doctor,  too,  scowled  on  her,  as  he  al- 
ways scowled  when  something  was  tearing  his  breast 
which  he  wished  to  hide,  but  the  scowl  softened  when 
ten  minutes  later  she  was  riding  beside  him.  The  rain 
had  already  become  a  lashing  downpour,  and  the  twi- 
light was  rent  by  garish  sheets  of  lightning.  At  last 
Good  Anse  said  slowly :  "  I  don't  hardly  feel  fitten 
ter  try  ter  do  nuthin'.  Ye  see  — "  He  broke  off  and 
when  he  looked  round  at  her  again  the  face  under  his 
dripping  hat  brim  was  whiter  even  than  the  lightning 
should  have  limned  it,  as  his  voice  rose  in  contention 
with  the  thunder.  "  Galloway's  wife  hain't  much  ter 
look  at  now.  She's  plumb  broke,  but  wunst  she  war 
ther  purtiest  gal  on  Meetin'  House  Fork.  In  them 
days  they  called  me  Hell-cat  Talbott  —  an'  hit  war 
God's  will  thet  she  wouldn't  marry  me." 

The  girl  never  forgot  that  night  of  thunder  and 
squalor  and  suspense.  The  night  long  she  watched  be- 
side the  wretched,  pain-racked  woman  and  fought  for 
two  lives  by  the  light  of  a  fire  into  which  the  rain  sput- 
tered down  the  low,  wide  chimney.  At  the  hearth  sat 
two  men.  One  clutched  his  face  and  combed  nervously 
at  his  unkempt  beard  with  talon-like  fingers.  He 
rocked  from  side  to  side  and  groaned,  brokenly,  deep 
in  his  throat.  The  other  sat  unmoving  and  stared, 
wide-eyed,  at  the  smoke-blackened  stones  of  the  fire- 
place. Often,  too,  he  knelt  and  the  fire  shone  on 
spasmodic  lips  moving  in  prayer.  So  they  waited;  the 
husband  and  the  discarded  lover. 

The  rain  drove  and  rattled  like  shot  against  the  slab 
roof,  and  some  of  it  dripped  through.  The  storm  went 


102  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

shrieking  and  volleying  through  the  hills  where  the 
timber  bent  to  its  savage  buffeting.  Over  it  all  rolled 
the  artillery  of  the  thunder  and  now  and  again  came 
the  death  crash  of  some  forest  patriarch  that  had  given 
way  after  centuries. 

Juanita  kept  vigil  and  thanked  God  for  her  little 
knowledge  of  medicine  and  the  use  of  chloroform. 

When  day  came  at  last  and  a  tiny  bundle  of  hu- 
manity lay  beside  its  wasted,  but  faintly  smiling  mother, 
she  carried  away,  in  reward  for  the  night-long  watch 
an  incoherent  "  God  bless  ye,"  from  bearded  lips. 

She  sometimes  rode  over  to  the  cabin  of  Fletch  Mc- 
Nash  and  brought  little  Dawn  back  with  her  to  spend 
a  day  or  two.  Then  foreign  girl  and  mountain  girl 
wandered  together  in  the  woods,  and  Dawn's  diffidence 
gave  way  and  her  adoration  grew.  Twice  Juanita 
found  another  visitor  at  the  McNash  cabin  —  Bad 
Anse  Havey.  He  recognized  her  only  with  a  haughty 
nod  like  that  of  an  Indian  chief  and  she  gave  him  in 
return  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head,  accompanied  by 
a  glance  of  starry  contempt  from  her  violet  eyes.  Yet 
in  the  attitude  of  the  mountaineers  toward  the  man, 
she  saw  such  hero-worship  as  might  have  been  accorded 
to  some  democratic  young  monarch  walking  freely 
among  his  subjects. 

As  he  talked  they  hung  on  his  words.  Jeb  listened 
as  to  a  prophet  and  even  Dawn  sat  with  her  chin  in 
her  hands  and  her  gaze  fixed  upon  his  deep  gray  eyes. 

Sometime  Juanita  felt  the  gray  pupils  focused  on 
her  and  under  their  scrutiny,  back  of  which  gleamed 
mingled  anger  and  a  sort  of  amused  scorn  that  galled 
her,  she  grew  strangely  uneasy. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  103 

Once  Fletch  said,  "  Ma'am,  how's  yore  school  a-comin' 
on  ?  Air  ye  gittin'  things  started  ter  suit  ye  ?  " 

Juanita  flushed.  "  Not  yet,"  she  answered.  "  I'm 
trying  to  get  acquainted  first.  When  I  do  start  I 
hope  to  make  up  for  lost  time." 

*'  I  reckon  that  school  will  be  a  right-good  thing 
over  thar,  don't  ye  'low  so,  Anse  ?  "  inquired  Fletch, 
whose  good-natured  density  had  not  sensed  the  tacit 
hostility  between  his  two  guests. 

Anse  laughed  quietly.  "  I  reckon,"  he  non-commit- 
tally  replied,  "  so  long  as  the  lady  just  keeps  on  sayin* 
'  not  yet '  thar  won't  be  no  harm  done." 

The  lady  flushed  and  a  hot  retort  rose  to  her  lips, 
but  she  only  turned  to  Fletch  and  smiled. 

"  I'm  biding  my  time,  Fletch,"  she  assured  him. 
"  My  dream  will  come  true." 

As  the  days  went  by  she  charged  up  to  Anse  Havey's 
heavy  scroll  of  offense  something  more  concrete. 
Juanita  Holland  was  building  a  structure  of  dreams ; 
and  as  she  sat  alone  in  the  woods  or  looked  out  of  the 
single  window  of  her  room  she  liked  to  imagine  its  ful- 
filment out  there  between  the  bases  of  the  hills.  For 
her  dream's  fulfilment  she  must  have  land.  Her  site 
must  be  large  enough  not  only  for  the  first  log  school- 
house  or  two,  but  for  the  larger  institution,  into  which 
it  was  to  grow.  There  must  be  dormitories  for  boys 
and  girls  and  playgrounds  where  muscles  and  brains 
grown  slow  from  heavy-harness  could  be  quickened. 
She  fancied  herself  listening  to  the  laughter  of  chil- 
dren who  had  not  before  learned  to  laugh. 

That  should  be  the  first  thing  taught,  but  even 
above  that  rost  another  dream.  On  some  green  hill- 


104  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

side  should  stand  her  tiny,  but  model  hospital,  with  a 
"  fotched-on "  trained  nurse  in  attendance  and  white 
cots  ranged  in  clean  rows  to  which  the  sick  might  come. 
From  comfortless  beds  in  musty  cabins  women  might  be 
brought  to  have  God's  sun  and  air  and  cleanliness  at- 
tend upon  the  birth  of  their  children.  As  she  made 
inquiries  of  land-holders  whom  a  price  might  tempt  to 
sell,  she  was  met  everywhere  with  a  reserve  which  puz- 
zled her  until  a  bare-footed  and  slouching  farmer  gave 
her  a  hint. 

This  man  rubbed  his  brown  toe  in  the  dust  and  spoke 
in  a  lowered  voice. 

'*  I  don't  mind  a-tellin'  ye  thet  I'd  be  plumb  willin' 
ter  sell  out  an'  move  — "  his  eyes  shone  greedily  as  he 
added,  "  fer  a  fair  figger,  but  I  moutn't  live  ter  move 
ef  I  sold  out." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  much  puzzled. 

"  Wall,  I  wouldn't  hardly  like  ter  hev  this  travel 
back  ter  Bad  Anse,  but  I've  done  been  admonished  not 
ter  make  no  trades  with  strangers." 

"  Oh ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  voice  as  her  face 
flushed  wrathfully.  "  Whom  does  your  land  belong 
to?  "  she  demanded  after  a  moment's  indignant  silence. 
"  Are  you  a  bondman  to  Bad  Anse  Havey  ?  Isn't  your 
property  your  own  ?  " 

He  looked  away  and  rummaged  in  his  pockets  for 
a  few  crumbs  of  leaf  tobacco,  then  he  commented  with 
the  dreary  philosophy  of  hopelessness,  "  Hit's  a  God's 
blessed  truth  thet  a  feller  hyarabouts  is  plumb  lucky  es 
long  as  his  life's  his  own." 

So,  she  told  herself,  Bad  Anse  had  begun  his  war 
with  boycott!  She  could  not  even  buy  a  foothold  on 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  105 

which  to  begin  her  fight.  Back  there  in  the  Philadel- 
phia banks  lay  enough  money,  she  bitterly  reflected,  to 
buy  the  County  at  an  inflated  price ;  to  bribe  its  Courts ; 
to  hire  assassins  and  snuff  out  human  lives,  yet,  since 
the  edict  of  one  man  carried  the  force  of  terror,  she 
could  not  buy  a  few  acres  to  teach  little  children  and 
care  for  the  sick.  At  least  it  was  a  confession  that, 
for  all  his  fine  pretense  of  scorn,  the  man  recognized 
and  feared  the  potentiality  of  her  efforts. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AS  the  bright  greens  of  June  were  scorched  into 
dustier  hues  of  July  and  the  little  spears  of  corn 
grew  taller,  she  began  to  feel  conscious  of  a  cer- 
tain drawing  back,  even  of  those  who  had  been  her  warm 
admirers  and  to  notice  scowls  on  strange  faces  as  they 
eyed  her. 

Somewhere  a  poison  squad  was  at  work.  Of  that  she 
felt  sure,  and  her  eyes  flashed  militant  anger  as  she 
thought  of  its  authorship.  Each  day  brought  her 
new  warnings,  offered  under  the  semblance  of  kindness 
and  friendship. 

"  Folks  hereabouts  liked  her  powerful  well,  but  hit 
warn't  hardly  likely  thet  Bad  Anse,  ner  Milt  McBriar 
would  suffer  her  ter  go  forward  with  her  projecks. 
They'd  done  been  holdin*  off  'cause  she  war  a  woman, 
an'  she'd  better  quit  of  her  own  behest."  So  they  were 
willing  to  let  her  surrender  with  the  honors  of  war! 
Her  lips  tightened. 

In  answer  to  detailed  questioning  her  informant 
would  invariably  shake  his  head  vaguely  and  suspect 
that  "  hit  warn't  rightly  none  of  his  business  nohow, 
he  just  'lowed  hit  war  a  kindly  act  ter  give  her  timely 
warnin'." 

Old  Bob  McGreeger  had  a  water  mill  a  half  mile 
from  the  Widow  Everson's  house,  and  had  there  been 

competition  in  his  neighborhood,  his  trade  would  have 

106 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  107 

died,  for  the  tongue  in  old  Bob's  head  was  a  member 
given  to  truculent  bitterness,  and  his  temper  was  the 
channel  through  which  the  dyspepsia  that  racked  him, 
found  torrential  outlet.  It  was  intimated  that  the 
spring  which  crept  down  through  the  laurel  thickets 
above  his  house,  often  brought  on  its  surface  floating 
grains  of  yellow  corn.  As  to  the  significance  of  these 
kernels,  mountain  etiquette  remained  silent.  Yet  the 
floating  particles  were  prima  facie  evidence  of  the 
proximity  of  a  moonshine  still  and  distilling  under  such 
circumstances  engenders  a  steadfast  distaste  for  in- 
novations hinting  at  a  change  of  order. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Old  Bob  was,  in  word  of  mouth, 
the  most  violent  man  in  the  hills.  In  his  code  of  honor 
the  one  unforgivable  sin  was  forgiveness,  and  peace 
was  the  one  contemptible  weakness.  His  body  was 
knife-slashed,  bullet-pitted  and  marked  of  fist  and  hu- 
man tooth  and  out  of  no  battle  had  he  ever  emerged 
victorious. 

"  Nobody  kain't  nuver  1'arn  oP  Bob  nuthin',"  Jerry 
Everson  told  Juanita  one  day.  "  Some  fellers  fights 
'cause  they  kin  fight,  an'  some  fellers  gets  persuaded 
by-and-by  that  they  kain't  fight  an'  quits  tryin',  but 
OP  Bob  kain't  fight  an'  kain't  quit.  He's  in  ther  hell 
of  a  sorry  fix,  Ol'  Bob  is." 

And  so  despite  his  troublesome  proclivities,  the  moun- 
tain folk  regarded  him  rather  humorously  and  made  al- 
lowances for  his  idiosyncrasies. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  the  girl  was  standing  at  the 
stile  of  the  Widow's  house  with  Jerry  at  her  elbow  when 
Old  Bob  came  "  j  est  broguein'  down  the  road."  He 
was  a  strange  sight  in  his  bare  feet,  his  ragged  trousers 


108  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

and  the  faded  Prince  Albert  coat,  which  had  drifted 
into  his  ownership  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  and  been 
donned  every  Sabbath  since.  He  completed  his 
anomalous  costume  with  a  battered  straw  hat  and  a 
much  spotted  red  necktie  at  his  collarless  throat.  He 
rapped  the  road  as  he  came  with  a  long  hickory  staff, 
and  his  face,  masked  in  ragged  iron-gray  whiskers, 
worked  like  a  rabbit's  with  his  mutterings. 

But  he  paused  at  the  gate  and  stood  there  scowling 
villainously  at  the  girl. 

"  Is  thet  her?  "  he  exploded  at  the  end  of 
his  scrutiny. 

"  Thet,"  said  Jerry,  who  was  now  the  girl's  dumb 
admirer,  "  is  Miss  Holland :  Miss  Juanita  Holland." 

"  Hit's  ther  hell  of  a  name  fer  any  gal,"  observed 
the  old  man,  still  boring  into  her  face  with  hostile  eyes. 
"  How  much  longer  do  she  'low  ter  tarry  in  these 
parts?" 

The  girl  flushed  scarlet,  and  then  telling  herself 
that  this  was  one  of  the  deficients  whom  the  hill  peo- 
ple call  "fitty,"  she  turned  away  and  looked  down  the 
road. 

"  Folks  round  hyar,"  said  Jerry  slowly  and  in  an 
ominously  quiet  voice,  "  hopes  thet  she  stays  a  long 
spell." 

"  Like  hell  they  does !  "  ripped  out  the  gray-bearded 
moonshiner  fiercely.  "  Ther  only  folks  thet  wishes  thet 
air  them  thet  eats  with  the  McBriars  an'  drinks  with 
ther  Haveys  an'  tells  lies  ter  both  on  'em.  Shore- 
'nough  folks  hain't  honin'  ter  hev  no  fotched-on  women 
spreadin'  new-fangled  notions  of  corruption  through 
ther  country.  What's  more  they  hain't  a-goin'  ter 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  109 

suffer  hit  much  longer.  Bad  Anse  is  gittin'  damn 
tired  of  puttin'  up  with  sich,  jest  because  hits  a 
woman." 

Juanita  Holland  wheeled,  stung  into  speech  at  last. 

"  I  reckon,"  she  said  quietly,  falling  unconsciously 
into  the  idiom,  while  her  cheeks  blazed,  "  there  isn't 
much  danger." 

"  No,  by  God,"  flared  the  man,  "  hit  hain't  danger, 
hit's  a  plumb  sartainty." 

Then  Jerry  Everson  crossed  the  stile. 

"  Uncle  Bob,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  reckon  ye've  done 
talked  plenty.  Begone  now  whilst  ye've  got  a  chanst." 

Bob  McGreeger  broke  into  a  volley  of  fiery  oaths, 
but  the  young  mountaineer  silenced  him  with  a  vice- 
like  grip  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Folks,"  he  said,  "  hev  been  makin'  hit  a  practise 
ter  take  a  heap  offen  ye,  because  ye've  got  gray  ha'r 
an'  a  weak  mind.  In  p'int  of  fact  one  more  lickin' 
wouldn't  harm  ye  none,  an'  ef  ye  hain't  plumb  heedful 
ye're  a  goin'  ter  git  hit  right  now." 

The  girl,  genuinely  anxious  for  the  old  man,  started 
across  the  stile  to  intercede,  but  with  a  sudden  change 
of  mood  her  heckler  turned  and  started  ambling  up  the 
road,  rumbling  as  he  went.  Jerry,  whose  anger  had 
died  as  suddenly  as  it  had  flared,  sung  after  him  taunt- 
ingly. "  Uncle  Bob,  ye  hadn't  oughter  go  round 
seekin'  fights.  Some  day  ye're  liable  ter  meet  up  with 
a  right-puny  feller  thet  ye  kin  lick,  an'  then  yore 
rep'tation'll  be  plumb  eternally  gone  ter  hell." 

But  the  girl  that  night  thought  long  and  gloomily 
over  the  outbreak  of  the  drunken  miller. 

During  those  weeks  of  June  and  the  first  half  of 


110  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

July  the  mountains  seemed  to  breathe  freer,  because  of 
the  truce  pledged  by  the  two  leaders,  and  the  men  of 
both  clans  walked  in  seeming  security,  through  the 
enemy's  territory.  None  the  less,  secret  and  silent  in- 
vestigations were  going  forward,  and  when  the  answer 
to  them  came  the  seeming  of  peace  would  burst  like  a 
pricked  bubble.  The  grievance  that  had  been  rankling 
in  McBriar  breasts  since  the  night  of  the  dance  had 
lost  none  of  its  soreness.  .Who  killed  Nash  McKay? 
Bad  Anse  Havey  knew  that  the  plighted  assurances  of 
his  enemy  would  not  long  outlast  the  answering  of  that 
question  and  he  was  not  resting  idle. 

Juanita  Holland  had  bought  a  small  piece  of  ground 
from  the  Widow  Everson,  near  her  own  house,  and  upon 
it  a  cabin  was  being  reared. 

*  •  •*•••* 

One  afternoon,  while  old  Milt  McBriar  was  sitting 
on  the  porch  of  his  house,  a  horseman  rode  up  and 
"  lighted."  The  horseman  was  not  a  pleasant  person 
of  visage  or  expression,  but  he  knew  his  mission  and 
was  sure  of  his  welcome. 

"  Evenin',  Luke,"  welcomed  the  McBriar  chief. 

As  the  visitor  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  nod  he  la- 
conically announced: 

"  I've  done  found  out  who  kilt  Nash  McKay." 

Old  Milt  never  showed  surprise.  It  was  his  pride 
that  his  features  had  banished  all  register  of  emotion. 
Now  he  merely  leaned  over  and  knocked  the  ash  from 
his  pipe  against  the  railing.  "  Wall,"  he  commanded 
curtly,  "  let's  hev  yore  tale." 

"  Them  Haveys  picked  out  a  man  thet  hain't  been 
mixed  up  in  no  feud  fightin'  heretofore,"  pursued  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  111 

other  with  unruffled  calmness.  "  He's  a  feller  thet  no- 
body wouldn't  hardly  suspect;  him  bein'  peaceable  an' 
mostly  sober.  But  he  shoots  his  squirrels  through  the 
head  every  time  he  throws  up  his  rifle-gun.  Thet  war 
ther  kind  of  man  they  wanted." 

Milt  McBriar  shifted  his  position  a  little.  He 
seemed  bored. 

"  Who  war  this  feller?  " 

The  bearer  of  tidings  was  reserving  his  climax  and 
refused  to  be  hurried. 

"  I  reckon  ye'll  be  right-smart  astonished  when  I 
names  his  name,  but  thar  hain't  no  chanst  of  bein'  mis- 
took. I've  done  run  ther  thing  down." 

"  I  hain't  nuver  astonished,"  retorted  McBriar. 
"Who  war  he?" 

Very  cautiously  the  second  man  looked  around  and 
then  bent  over  and  whispered  a  name.  If  Milt  McBriar 
did  not  show  surprise  at  its  mention  it  was  because  he 
made  a  conscious  effort.  At  last  he  laughed  unpleas- 
antly and  commented,  "  Thet  war  like  Anse  Havey. 
He's  kind  of  fond  of  doin'  things  thet  ye  wouldn't 
hardly  'low  he  would  do."  After  a  short  pause  the 
chief  added,  "  Wall,  I  reckon  I  don't  need  ter  tell  yer 
what  ter  do  now?  " 

"  I  reckon  I  knows,"  confessed  Luke  with  a  some- 
what surly  expression.  "  Why  don't  ye  foller  Anse's 
lead  an'  use  a  new  man  oncet  in  a  while?  " 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  ye'll  do,  Luke,  an'  atter  ye  does  hit, 
ye'd  better  leave  ther  mountings  fer  a  spell." 

The  surliness  deepened.  "  Hell ! "  muttered  the 
henchman.  But  Milt  McBriar  was  paying  no  atten- 
tion. His  face  was  darkening.  "  I  wish  I  could  af- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

ford  ter  git  ther  real  man,"  he  exclaimed  abruptly, 
"  I  wish  I  durst  hev  Anse  Havey  kilt." 

"  Wall  — "  this  time  it  was  the  underling  who  spoke 
casually  — "  I  reckon  I  mout  as  well  die  fer  a  sheep  as  a 
lamb.  Shell  I  kill  Anse  Havey  fer  ye?" 

The  chieftain  looked  at  him  during  a  long  pause, 
then  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  Luke,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  hain't  quite  ready' 
ter  die  myself  yit.  I  reckon  if  I  hed  ye  ter  kill  Ead 
Anse  thet's  'bout  what'd  happen.  Jest  git  ther  lamb 
this  trip  an'  let  ther  old  ram  live  a  spell." 

So  one  unspeakably  sultry  morning  a  few  days  after 
that  informal  session,  Good  Anse  Talbott  appeared  at 
the  door  of  the  Widow  Everson's  house.  As  Juanita 
Holland  appeared  in  the  door  to  greet  him  he  came  to 
the  point  without  persiflage. 

"  Fletch  McNash  hes  done  been  kilt,"  he  said. 
"  'Bout  twilight  last  night  es  he  war  a-comin'  in  from 
ther  barn  somebody  shot  one  shoot  from  ther  la'rel. 
I  reckon  hit'd  be  right-smart  comfort  ter  his  woman 
an'  little  Dawn  ef  ye  could  ride  over  thar  an'  help 
'tend  ter  ther  buryin'.  Kin  ye  start  now?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GO!  Juanita  would  go  if  it  were  necessary  to  run 
a  gantlet  of  all  the  combined  forces  of  the  Haveys 
and  McBriars.  Her  heart  ached  for  the  widow 
and  the  boys,  but  for  Dawn  the  ache  was  as  deeply  poig- 
nant as  it  could  have  been  for  a  little  sister  of  her  own. 
The  child  had  brought  to  her  her  one  truly  personal 
association  in  the  mountains.  Their  intimacy  had  been 
to  Juanita  a  solace  and  a  substitute  for  all  the  things 
she  had  put  behind,  things  thairleft  emptiness  and  ache 
in  her  heart.  To-day  her  little  protegee  was  a  child. 
To-morrow  she  would  be  a  woman  and  the  day  after  — 
the  girl  shuddered  as  she  reflected  on  the  Galloway 
woman  who  had  a  few  years  ago  been  the  "  purtiest 
gal  on  Meetin'  House  Fork."  Dawn  and  girls  like 
her  were  the  stake  for  which  she  had  come  here  to  fight. 
It  was  such  lives  she  meant  to  redeem.  Now  across 
the  lot  of  this  joyous  little  creature  had  fallen  the 
shadow  of  the  seemingly  inevitable  —  of  the  grim, 
sullen  home-breaking  thing  that  brooded  here,  feeding 
on  human  life.  So  it  was  with  set  face  and  hot  in- 
dignation of  heart  that  she  mounted  for  the  journey. 
Yet  in  the  rancor  of  her  unreasoning  anger  it  was 
not  upon  the  actual  assassin  that  her  censure  chiefly 
burned.  She  chose  rather  to  go  back  of  all  that  and 
think  of  Anse  Havey  as  the  human  incarnation;  the 

head  and  front  of  the  whole  wretched,  blood-drenched 

113 


114  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

regime.  He  seemed  even  more  responsible  than  Milt 
McBriar  because  his  lawless  fame  had  gone  more  pic- 
turesquely abroad. 

As  they  rode  the  hills  were  full  of  midsummer  lan- 
guor. The  trees  were  unstirring  in  the  hushed  heat. 
Only  the  minnows  in  the  little  pools  and  the  geese  that 
waddled  down  to  the  cool  waters  seemed  free  of  tor- 
pidness  and  lethargy.  The  locusts  and  grasshoppers 
sang  from  dry  roadside  stalks  and  flew  rattling  away 
from  the  ironweeds  and  thistles  as  they  passed. 

The  horses  kicked  up  clouds  of  choking  dust  and 
along  the  edges  of  the  shrunken  streams  little  clusters 
of  white  and  pale-yellow  butterflies  fluttered  wearily. 

The  houses,  where  a  roof  broke  through  the  timber, 
were  sullen,  too,  and  closed  of  door,  despite  the  heat,  but 
Juanita  no  longer  thought  of  them  as  hovels  where 
men  and  women  closely  akin  to  the  dumb  beasts  lived 
as  in  dens.  Love  and  hate  and  hope  and  despair,  she 
had  learned,  burn  as  fiercely  there  as  elsewhere  and 
though  more  nakedly,  perhaps  more  honestly.  The  pov- 
erty which  it  had,  at  first,  seemed  must  strangle  to 
death  everything  but  animal  instinct,  was  robbed  of  its 
abjectness.  Its  self-denial  was  a  compromise  only  with 
necessity,  never  with  self-respect.  The  same  Spartan 
spirit  had  animated  Kenton  and  Boone  when  they  dis- 
carded every  non-essential  from  their  pioneer  packs. 
She  herself  was  in  effect  as  poor  as  they,  because  her 
possessions  lay  beyond  ramparts  of  granite  and  sand- 
stone. So  much  had  the  girl  Juanita  grown  under 
the  teachings  of  those  she  had  come  to  teach. 

At  last  they  reached  the  McNash  cabin  and  found 
gathered  about  it  a  score  of  figures  with  sullen  and 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  115 

scowling  faces.  As  she  crossed  the  yard  the  crowd 
opened  for  her  and  gazed  after  her  respectfully.  Even 
the  missionary  did  not  cross  the  threshold  with  her, 
but  let  her  enter  alone  on  her  errand  of  comforting  the 
"  women  folks "  who  were  in  there  with  their  dead. 
From  the  barn  came  the  screech  of  saw  and  rat-tat 
of  hammer,  where  those  whose  knack  ran  to  carpentry 
were  fashioning  the  box  which  was  to  serve  in  lieu  of 
a  casket. 

There  was  no  fire  now  and  the  cabin  was  very  dark. 
In  a  deeply  shadowed  corner  lay  Fletch  McNash,  made 
visible  by  the  white  sheet  that  covered  him.  That 
sheet  had  been  borrowed  from  a  neighbor  who  "  made 
it  a  p'int  ter  hev  things  handy  fer  buryin's."  It  had 
served  the  same  purpose  before  and  would  again. 

Juanita  had  come  in  silently  and  for  a  moment 
thought  that  no  one  else  was  there,  and  that  she  was 
alone  with  death.  The  younger  children  had  been 
sent  away  and  the  neighbors  remained  outside  with 
rough  sense  of  consideration.  Among  them  was  no  ex- 
citement ;  they  smoked  stoically  and  talked  of  indifferent 
topics.  Death  was  a  neighbor  near  whom  they  had  al- 
ways lived,  and  this  case  was  like  many  others. 

Then  as  Juanita  stood  just  inside  the  Hotel,  she 
heard  a  low  moan  and  crossed  the  room. 

There  in  a  squat  chair  near  the  dead  hearth  sat  Mrs. 
McNash,  with  her  back  turned  to  the  room.  She  was 
leaning  forward  and  gazing  ahead  with  unseeing  eyes. 
Dawn  was  kneeling  at  her  side  with  both  arms  about 
her  mother's  drooping  shoulders.  It  was  from  Dawn, 
whose  tear-stained  face  was  wan  and  white,  that  the 
groan  had  come.  The  elder  woman  had  uttered  no 


116  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

sound.  For  hours  she  had  been  sitting  there  in  just 
that  attitude,  tearless  and  mute,  with  a  face  that  was  as 
drawn  and  taut  as  though  parchment  instead  of  skin 
was  stretched  across  the  bones  of  her  skull.  Some- 
times a  spasm  of  shaking  ran  through  her  body  like  a 
chill,  but  except  for  that  she  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 
It  was  the  still  grief  of  the  mountain  woman  which 
finds  no  outlet  and  instills  into  her  offspring  a 
wormwood  and  thirst  for  vengeance  with  their  suck- 
ling. 

Juanita  bent  and  impulsively  kissed  the  withered 
face,  but  the  woman  only  stirred  a  little  like  a  half- 
awakened  sleeper  and  looked  stolidly  up.  After  a 
while  she  spoke  in  the  lifeless,  far-away  tone  of  utter 
lethargy. 

"  Ef  ye'd  like  ter  see  him,  jest  lift  up  ther  sheet.  .  .  . 
He's  a-layin'  thar."  Then  once  more  she  sank  back 
into  the  coma  of  her  staring  at  the  hearth  with  its  dead 
ashes.  But  Dawn  had  not  looked  tragedy  in  the  face 
so  long  that  it  had  made  her  the  stoic.  She  was  wild 
only  as  the  song  bird  is  wild  and  not  as  the  hunted 
animal.  She  rose  and  stood  shaken  with  deep  sobs, 
and  putting  both  hands  out  before  her,  came  gropingly 
and  blind  with  tears  into  the  outstretched  arms  of 
Juanita  Holland. 

Then  the  door  opened,  letting  in  two  men,  and  in 
them  Juanita  recognized  Jeb  McNash  and  Bad  Anse 
Havey. 

At  their  coming  Dawn  looked  up,  and  drawing  away 
from  the  embrace  of  the  older  girl,  retreated  silently  to  a 
corner  as  though  ashamed  of  having  been  discovered 
in  tears.  For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence  in  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  117 

room,  complete  except  for  the  rap  of  Jeb's  pipe  when 
he  knocked  out  its  ashes  against  the  chimney. 

Bad  Anse  stood  with  folded  arms  in  the  dim  light 
and  gave  no  sign  that  he  had  recognized  the  presence 
of  the  foreign  woman. 

The  boy  jerked  his  head  toward  the  hearth  and  said 
in  a  strained,  hard  voice,  "  Set  ye  a  cheer,  Anse,"  and 
after  that  no  one  spoke.  Jeb's  thin,  but  muscular  chest 
rose  and  fell  to  the  swell  of  heavy  breathing,  and  his 
face  was  wrapped  black  in  a  scowl  that  made  his  eyes 
smolder  and  his  lips  snarl.  Juanita  had  dropped  back 
to  one  of  the  beds  where  she  sat  with  Dawn's  face 
buried  in  her  lap.  She  studied  the  faces  which  were 
all  shadow  faces  in  the  dimness,  but  which  grew  in  dis- 
tinctness when  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  dark, 
standing  out  more  clearly  just  as  features  painted  on 
an  old,  discolored  canvas  come  out  under  an  intent 
gaze. 

But  even  in  the  murk  Anse  Havey's  eyes  shone  clear 
and  insistent,  and  held  her  gaze  with  an  almost  un- 
canny fascination.  It  was  difficult  to  remember  all  the 
villainies  of  which  she  believed  him  guilty  when  she 
could  actually  see  him,  for  the  face  was  that  of  a  strong 
fighting  philosopher,  who  acts  swiftly  and  surely,  but 
who  thinks  even  more  swiftly  and  surely.  As  she 
looked  at  him  she  told  herself  that  she  hated  him  the 
more  for  his  hypnotic  eyes  —  they  gave  him  much  of 
his  evil  power  over  men. 

Then  as  if  rousing  from  a  long  dream  Mrs.  McNash 
lifted  her  gaze  and  for  the  first  time  appeared  to  realize 
that  her  son  and  his  companion  had  entered  the  place. 

The  dead  blankness  left  her  pupils  and  into  them 


118  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

leaped  a  hateful  fire.     Her  voice  came  in  shrill  and 
high-pitched  questioning:     "  Wall,  Jeb,  hev  ye  got  him 

yit?" 

The  boy  only  shook  his  head  and  glowered  at  the 
wall  while  his  mother's  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream. 

"  Hain't  ye  a-goin'  ter  do  nothin'  ?  Thar  lays  yore 
pap  what  nuver  harmed  no  man,  shot  down  cold- 
blooded. Don't  ye  hear  him  a-callin'  on  yer  ter  settle 
his  blood-score?  Air  ye  skeered?  Ther  sperit  of  him 
thet  fathered  ye  air  a-pleadin*  with  ye  from  his 
shroud  —  an'  ye  sets  still  in  yore  cheer  an'  twiddles 
yore  thumbs ! " 

Juanita  felt  the  slender  figure  in  her  embrace  shud- 
der at  the  lashing  invective  that  fell  from  the  mother's 
crazed  lips.  She  saw  the  boy's  face  whiten ;  saw  him 
rise  and  turn  to  Bad  Anse  Havey,  half  in  ferocity,  half 
in  pleading. 

"  Maw's  right,  Anse,"  he  doggedly  declared.  "  I 
kain't  tarry  hyar  no  longer.  He  b'longs  ter  me.  .  .  . 
I've  got  ter  go  out  an'  kill  him.  Thar  hain't  but  one 
thing  a-stoppin'  me  now,"  he  added  helplessly.  "  I 
don't  know  who  did  hit.  I  hain't  got  no  notion." 

He  stood  before  the  clan  chief  and  the  clan  chief 
rose  and  laid  one  hand  on  the  shoulder  which  had  be- 
gun to  tremble.  Man  and  boy  looked  at  each  other, 
eye  to  eye,  then  the  elder  of  the  two  began  to  speak. 

"  Jeb,  I  don't  want  ye  to  think  I  don't  feel  for  ye, 
but  ye  don't  know  who  the  feller  is,  an'  ye  can't  hardly 
go  shootin*  permiscuous.  Ye've  got  to  bide  your 
time." 

"  But,"  interrupted  the  boy  tensely,  "  you  knows. 
You  knows  everything  hyarabouts.  In  God's  name, 


"Maw's  right,  Anse,"  he  doggedly  declared.    "T  kain't  tarry  hyar  no  longer. 
He  b'longs  ter  me." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  119 

Anse,  I  hain't  askin'  nothin'  out  of  ye  but  jest  one 
word.  Jest  speak  one  name,  thet's  all  I  needs." 

The  mother  had  dropped  back  into  her  stupor  again 
and  her  son  stood  there,  his  broganed  feet  wide  apart 
and  his  whole  body  rigid  and  taut  with  passion. 

Anse  Havey  once  more  shook  his  head. 

*4  No,  Jeb,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  don't  know  neither  — 
not  yet.  The  McBriars  acted  on  suspicion  —  an'  they 
killed  the  wrong  man.  Ye  ain't  seekin'  to  do  likewise, 
be  ye?  Ye  ain't  quite  twenty-one,  Jeb,  an'  I'm  the 
head  of  the  family.  I  reckon  ye'd  better  take  counsel 
of  me,  boy.  I  ain't  bent  on  deludin'  ye  an'  ye  can  trust 
me.  Ye've  got  to  give  me  your  hand,  Jeb,  that  until 
we're  plumb,  everlastin'ly  sartain  who  got  your  pa,  ye 
won't  raise  your  gun  against  any  man.  I  want  ye 
to  give  me  your  solemn  pledge  on  that." 

The  boy  sank  down  into  his  chair  and  bowed  his 
head  in  his  hands  while  his  finger  nails  bit  into  his  tem- 
ples. Even  Juanita  Holland  had  felt  the  effect  of 
Havey's  wonderfully  quieting  voice  and  personality. 
Finally  Jeb  McNash  raised  his  face. 

"  An'  will  ye  give  me  yore  hand,  Anse  Havey,  thet  if 
ye  finds  hit  out  afore  I  do,  ye'll  tell  me  thet  man's 
name?  " 

"  I  ain't  never  turned  my  back  on  a  kinsman  yet, 
Jeb,"  Anse  gravely  reminded  him. 

The  boy  nodded  his  acquiescence  and  hurriedly  left 
the  room.  Juanita  gently  lifted  Dawn's  head  from  her 
lap  and  went  forward  to  the  hearth. 

She  had  listened  in  silence,  outraged  at  this  callous 
talk  and  this  private  usurpation  of  powers  of  life  and 
death.  Now  it  seemed  to  her  that  to  remain  longer  si- 


120  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

lent  would  be  almost  to  become  an  accomplice.  Some- 
thing in  her  grew  rigid.  She  saw  the  bent  and 
lethargic  figure  of  the  bereaved  wife  and  the  stark, 
sheeted  body  of  the  feud's  last  victim.  Before  her 
stood  the  man  more  than  any  one  else  responsible  for 
such  conditions. 

"  Mr.  Havey,"  she  said  as  her  voice  grew  coldly  pur- 
poseful, with  the  ring  of  challenge,  "  I  have  been  told 
that  you  did  not  mean  to  let  me  stay  here;  that  you 
did  not  intend  to  give  these  poor  children  the  chance  to 
grow  straight  and  decent."  She  paused  because  so 
much  was  struggling  indignantly  for  utterance  that  she 
found  the  ordering  of  her  words  very  difficult.  And 
as  she  paused  she  heard  him  inquire  in  an  ironically 
quiet  voice,  "  Who  told  ye  that?  " 

"  Never  mind  who  told  me.  I  haven't  come  here  to 
answer  your  questions.  I  came  to  these  feud-cursed 
hills  to  fight  conditions  for  which  you  stand  as  sponsor 
and  patron  saint.  I  came  here  to  try  to  give  the  chil- 
dren release  from  ignorance  —  because  ignorance 
makes  them  easy  tools  and  dupes  for  murder  lords  — 
like  you." 

Again  her  tumult  of  spirit  halted  her  and  she  heard 
Dawn  sobbing  with  grief  and  fright  on  the  bed. 

"  Are  ye  through  ? "  inquired  Anse  Havey.  His 
voice  had  the  flinty  quiet  of  cruelly  repressed  passion, 
and  his  face  had  whitened,  but  he  had  not  moved. 

"  No,  I'm  not  through,"  she  went  on  with  ris- 
ing vehemence.  "  I  came  here  seeking  to  interfere 
with  no  man's  affairs  .  .  .  wishing  only  to  give  your 
people,  without  price,  what  they  are  entitled  to  ... 
the  light  that  all  the  rest  of  the  world  enjoys.  I  found 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  community  bound  hand  and  foot  in  slavery  to  two 
men  of  a  like  stripe.  I  found  their  hirelings  murdering 
each  other  from  ambush.  I'm  only  a  woman,  but  I 
carry  the  credentials  of  decency  and  civilization.  You 
two  have  everything  else  —  everything  except  decency 
and  civilization.  .  .  .  You  and  Milt  McBriar !  " 

He  had  listened  while  the  muscles  of  his  jaws  stood 
out  in  cramped  tensity  and  the  veins  began  to  cord 
themselves  on  his  temples.  Now  he  said  in  a  low  voice 
between  his  teeth :  "  By  God,  don't  liken  me  to  Milt 
McBriar." 

The  girl  laughed,  a  little  hysterically  and  wildly,  then 
swept  on. 

"  I  do  liken  you  to  Milt  McBriar.  What  in  God's 
name  is  the  difference  between  you?  He  kills  your 
vassals  and  you  kill  his.  Both  of  you  do  it  by  the 
proxy  of  hirelings  and  from  ambuscade.  In  this  house 
a  man  lies  dead  —  dead  for  no  quarrel  of  his  own,  but 
because  of  your  quarrel  with  Milt  McBriar.  But  it 
seems  that's  not  enough.  You  must  enlist  the  son  of 
the  dead  man  into  a  life  that  will  have  the  same  end  for 
him.  .  .  .  You  bind  him  apprentice  to  your  merciless 
code  of  murder."  Her  hands  were  clenched  and  her 
eyes  burning  with  her  tempest  of  rage.  When  she 
stopped  speaking  the  man  inquired  once  again :  "  Are 
ye  through  now?  "  But  Juanita  swept  both  hands  out 
and  added : 

"  You  have  taken  the  boy  —  very  well.  I  mean  to 
take  the  girl.  I  shall  try  to  undo  in  her  and  in  her 
children  the  evil  you  will  do  her  brother.  I  shall  try 
to  give  the  family  one  unblighted  branch.  Unless  you 
kill  me  I  shall  stay  here  and  fight.  I'll  fight  you  and 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

your  enemy,  McBriar,  alike  because  you  are  only  two 
sides  of  the  same  coin.  .  .  .  I'll  try  to  take  the  ground 
out  from  under  your  feet  and  leave  you  no  standing 
room  outside  a  State's  prison.  .  .  .  Dawn  shall  learn 
the  things  that  will,  some  day,  set  this  country  free." 

Mrs.  McNash  was  looking  up  vaguely,  but  her 
thoughts  were  still  far  away,  and  this  outpouring  of 
speech  near  at  hand  meant  little  to  her. 

Juanita  as  she  finished  her  wild  peroration  fell  sud- 
denly to  trembling.  Her  strength  seemed  to  have  gone 
out  with  her  words.  Her  knees,  now  that  the  effort 
was  made,  seemed  too  weak  to  support  her,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  as  she  looked  into  the  face 
of  Anse  Havey,  a  face  ominously  blanched  with  rage, 
hurt  pride  and  bitterness,  she  was  physically  afraid  of 
a  man. 

His  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  her  with  the  stabs  of 
rapiers  and  in  his  quiet  self-repression  was  something 
very  ominous.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  permit  him- 
self to  speak,  then  he  thrust  a  chair  forward  and  said 
in  a  level  and  toneless  sort  of  voice :  "  If  ye're  all 
through  now,  mebby  ye'd  better  sit  down.  Such  elo- 
quence as  that's  liable  ter  tire  ye  out  right  smartly." 

The  girl  made  no  move  to  take  the  chair,  and  Anse 
Havey  came  one  step  forward  and  pointed  to  it.  This 
time  his  voice  came  quick  and  sharp  like  the  crack  of 
a  mule  whip.  "Sit  down  I  tell  ye!  I've  got  just  a 
few  words  ter  say  my  own  self." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DAWN  drew  back  on  the  quilted  feather  bed,  her 
fingers  twisting  about  one  another  in  an  excess 
of  nervous  disquiet.  Never  before  had  she 
heard  any  one,  man  or  woman,  venture  a  word  of  re- 
bellion or  defiance  to  Bad  Anse  Havey.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  her  that  there  was  in  the  world  a  person 
bold  enough  to  do  so.  The  mountain  child  felt  al- 
most as  if  she  were  a  prize  being  fought  for;  fought 
for  bitterly  by  two  people  whom  she  held  in  that  high 
awe  accorded  to  deities. 

For  a  few  moments  Bad  Anse  Havey  said  nothing 
more  and  the  Eastern  girl  dropped  almost  limply  into 
the  chair  which  he  had  pushed  forward,  while  he,  him- 
self, paced  the  narrow  length  of  the  room,  pausing  once 
to  gaze  down  at  the  rigid  body  of  the  dead  man.  At 
last  he  came  and  took  his  place  squarely  before  her  by 
the  hearth  with  both  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  coat 
pockets.  A  long  black  lock  fell  over  his  forehead  and 
he  impatiently  shook  it  back. 

"  Dawn,"  he  said  finally,  "  I  wish  ye'd  go  to  the  door 
an'  tell  one  of  them  fellers  out  there  not  ter  let  no  one 
come  in  till  I'm  through." 

"  So  you  mean  to  keep  me  prisoner  here  while  you 
attempt  to  intimidate  me?  "  inquired  the  elder  girl  a 
little  scornfully.  "  I  suppose  I  might  have  expected 

that.     It  doesn't  frighten  me,  however." 

123 


124  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Dawn ! "  countermanded  Havey, 
still  speaking  in  a  low  and  unexcited  voice.  "  Is  there 
any  person  out  thar,  ma'am,  ye'd  like  to  have  come  in? 
I  'lowed  that  in  here,  whar  we  both  come  to  try  ter 
help  friends  in  affliction,  ye'd  know  nothin'  couldn't 
harm  ye." 

Juanita's  cheeks  betrayed  her  annoyance  with  a  deep 
flush.  She  had  meant  to  be  bitterly  ironical;  and  this 
barbarian  had  parried  her  thrust  with  a  dignity  greater 
than  her  own.  "  Please  go  on,"  she  said.  "  I've  al- 
ready told  you  that  I'm  not  yet  terrorized." 

"  In  the  first  place,"  he  began  in  his  deliberate  voice, 
"  ye've  said  some  things  thet  I  doubt  not  ye  believe 
to  be  true,  but  they're  'most  all  of  'em  lies."  He  flung 
back  his  head  and  looked  squarely  down  at  her,  his 
eyes  narrow  and  snapping,  but  with  his  voice  pitched 
to  a  low  cadence. 

"  Ye've  said  things  that,  since  ye're  a  woman,  I  ain't 
got  any  way  of  answerin'.  I  listened  to  all  them  things 
an'  I  didn't  interrupt  ye.  The  only  thing  I  asks  of 
ye,  is  thet  now  ye  hearken  to  what  7  want  to  say." 

"  Go  on.     I'm  listening  with  humble  attention." 

"  Ye've  called  me  a  murderer  an'  a  hirer  of  murderers. 
That's  a  lie.  I've  never  killed  no  man  that  didn't  have 
his  face  fords  me,  nor  one  that  wasn't  armed.  I've 
nerer  hired  any  man  killed. 

"  Ye?ve  likened  me  to  Milt  McBriar.  .  .  .  Thet  was 
a  lie,  too.  Ye've  said  some  right-bitter  things,  an'  I 
can't  answer  ye.  If  ye  was  a  man  I  could." 

"  And  if  I  were  a  man,  what  would  you  say  to  me?  " 
she  inquired. 

"  I    reckon " —  his    words    came    with    an    icv    cold- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  125 

ness  — "  I'd  be  pretty  liable  to  tell  ye  to  eternally  go  to 
hell." 

"  And  if  I  were  a  man,"  she  promptly  retorted,  "  I'd 
endeavor  with  every  ounce  of  manhood  I  had  in  me 
to  see  that  you,  and  the  others  like  you,  did  go  there. 
I'd  try  to  see  that  you  went  the  appropriate  way, 
through  the  trap  of  the  gallows." 

She  saw  his  attitude  stiffen  and  his  face  flush  brick- 
red  to  the  cheek-bones.  But  after  a  few  seconds  she 
heard  him  speak  with  a  fair  counterfeit  of  amusement. 

"  Wall,  it  'pears  like  we've  both  got  to  be  right- 
smart  disappointed  —  on  account  of  your  bein'  a 
woman." 

And  that  time  it  was  she  who  flushed. 

"  I  don't  hardly  know  why  I'm  takin'  the  trouble 
to  make  any  statement  to  ye,"  mused  Anse  Havey. 
"  It  ain't  hardly  worth  while.  Ye  came  up  here  with 
your  mind  fixed.  Ye've  read  a  lot  of  hearsay  stuff  in 
newspapers,  an'  facts  ain't  hardly  apt  to  count  for 
much.  ...  I  reckon  afore  ye  decides  to  hang  me  ye'll 
let  me  have  my  day  in  Court,  won't  ye?  " 

"  Before  your  own  Judge  and  your  own  Jury? " 
she  naively  asked  him.  "  That's  the  way  you  usually 
have  your  day  in  Court,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Havey  ?  " 

"  It's  you  that's  settin'  as  the  Court  just  now,"  he 
disconcertingly  reminded  her.  "  I  reckon  ye  can  judge 
for  yeself  how  much  I  owns  ye." 

In  spite  of  herself  she  smiled.  "  I  rather  think  I 
can,"  she  admitted.  "  Approximately  at  least." 

"  I  think  I  understand  ye,  better  than  ye  do  me,"  he 
went  on  very  slowly.  "  I  think  ye're  plumb  honest  in 
all  the  notions  ye  fetched  up  here  despite  the  fact  that 


126  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

most  of  'em  are  wrong.  Ye've  done  come  with  a  heap 
of  money,  to  teach  folks  what  you  'low  they'd  ought  to 
know.  Ye  didn't  know  that  they'd  ruther  have  ig- 
norance than  charity.  Ye  think  that  you  an'  Al- 
mighty God  have  gone  in  partners  fer  the  regeneration 
of  these  mountains,  where  no  woman  has  ever  been  in- 
sulted an'  no  man  has  to  bar  his  door  against  thievery : 
where  all  we  asks  is  to  be  left  alone.  I  reckon  every 
day  ye're  wonderin',  'Is  my  halo  on  straight?'  It's 
nat'ral  enough  that  ye  should  be  right  scornful  of  a 
man  that  some  newspaper  reporter  has  called  a  mur- 
derer." 

His  voice  fell  away  and  Juanita  heard  again  the  beat- 
ing of  the  hammers  out  in  the  barn. 

"  Is  that  all?  "  she  asked.  But  the  man  shook  his  head 
and  stood  looking  down  on  her  until  under  the  spell  of 
his  unusual  eyes,  she  felt  like  screaming  out,  "  Talk  if 
you  want  to,  but  for  heaven's  sake  don't  hypnotize 
me.  It  isn't  fair !  " 

"  Mebby  ef  ye'd  stopped  to  think  about  things  a  lit- 
tle more  deliberate,"  he  thoughtfully  resumed,  "  ye'd 
have  seen  that  I  didn't  have  no  quarrel  with  your  plans. 
Mebby  I  might  even  have  been  able  to  help  ye.  I  could 
have  told  ye  for  one  thing  that  whether  the  ways  here 
be  right  or  wrong,  they've  done  stood  fer  two  hundred 
years.  Ye've  got  to  go  slow  changin'  'em.  Ye  can't 
hardly  pull  up  a  poplar  saplin'  with  one  jerk.  Thar's 
a  tap  root  underneath  it  that  runs  down  half  way  to 
hell. 

"  If  people  hyarbouts  is  distrustful  of  foreign 
teachers  an'  ways,  it's  because  of  the  samples  they've 
had.  A  feller  came  here  once  from  the  settlements  to 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  127 

teach  school.  He  was  a  smart  upstandin'  feller  an' 
well  liked.  A  man  by  the  name  of  Trevor. 

"  When  folks  found  out  that  he  was  locatin'  coal  an' 
buyin'  their  land  fer  next  to  nothin' —  robbin'  them  of 
their  birthright  —  it  looked  right  smart  like  some- 
body might  kill  him.  I  warned  him  away  to  save  his 
life.  Ye've  got  to  make  folks  forget  Trevor  afore  ye 
makes  'em  trust  you" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Juanita  coldly.  "I'll  try  to 
show  them  that  I'm  not  another  Trevor.  Are  you 
warning  me  away  to  save  my  life,  too?  " 

**  I'm  tol'able  ignorant,"  went  on  the  man,  "  but 
I've  read  a  few  books  an'  one  of  'em  told  the  story  of 
the  Trojan  hoss.  I  wanted  ter  see  what  kind  of  a 
critter  you  was  a-ridin'  into  these  hills.  I  come  to  this 
cabin  the  night  ye  got  here  to  find  out." 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  quietly  answered.  "  I  was  to 
be  inspected  like  an  immigrant,  and  the  Lord  of  the 
Land  was  to  decide  whether  or  not  I  should  be  sent 
back." 

"  Put  it  that  way  if  ye've  a  mind  to,"  he  imperturb- 
ably  answered.  "  Ye  was  comin'  to  be  a  school-teacher 
here.  Well  I'd  done  been  a  school-teacher  here  ...  I 
see  your  smile  .  .  .  ye're  wonderin'  what  I  could  teach. 
Maybe  after  all  it's  a  right  good  idea  to  teach  A.  B.  C.'s, 
before  ye  starts  in  with  algebra  an'  rhetoric.  Ye 
wouldn't  have  me  as  a  friend  an'  I  reckon  that  won't 
break  my  heart." 

"  Then,"  said  the  girl,  looking  up  and  meeting  his 
eyes  with  a  flash  of  challenge,  "  I  shall  endeavor  to  get 
along  without  your  favor.  We  could  hardly  have  met 
on  common  ground,  at  best.  I  shall  teach  the  Ten 


128  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Commandments,  including :  *  Thou  shalt  not  kill.'  I 
shall  teach  that  to  lie  hidden  behind  a  bush  and  shoot 
an  unsuspecting  enemy  is  cowardly  and  despicable.  I 
would  not  be  willing  to  tell  them  that  they  must  live 
and  die  vassals  to  feudal  tyranny." 

"  No,"  he  agreed,  "  ye  couldn't  hardly  outrage  your 
holy  conscience  by  tryin'  to  teach  'em  things  in  a  way 
they  could  understand,  could  ye?  If  Little  Jeb  had 
a-come  to  ye,  like  he  came  to  me,  askin'  the  name  of  the 
man  he  sought  to  kill,  ye  would  have  said  ter  him,  '  It 
was  So-an'-so,  but  ye  mustn't  harm  him,  because  some- 
body writ  in  a  book  two  thousand  years  ago  that  killin' 
is  a  sin.'  An'  the  hell  of  it  is  ye'd  'low  such  talk  would 
satisfy  Mm.  Ye  couldn't  do  no  such  wicked  thing  as 
to  stop  an'  reflect  that  he's  a  mountain  boy,  an'  that 
for  two  hundred  years  the  blood  in  his  veins  hes  been 
a-comin'  down  to  him  full  of  grudge-mi r sin'  an'  hate. 
Ye  couldn't  make  allowances  for  the  fact  that  he  wasn't 
hatched  in  a  barn-yard  to  peck  at  corn-cobs  an'  berries, 
but  in  an  eagle's  nest  —  that  he's  a  bird  of  prey.  Ye 
couldn't  consider  the  fact  that  the  killin'  instinct  runs 
in  the  current  of  his  blood,  an*  was  drunk  in  at  his 
mother's  breast.  Ye'd  just  teach  barn-yard  lessons  to 
young  eagles  an'  that's  why  ye  might  as  well  go  home." 

"  I'm  grateful  for  this  teacher's  course,"  retorted 
Juanita  hotly,  "  and  I'm  not  going  home." 

Then  Anse  Havey  went  on.  "  But  I  know  that  boy. 
I  know  that  if  I'd  talked  that-a-way  he'd  just  about 
have  gone  out  in  the  la'rel  an'  got  somebody.  It  might 
not  'a'  been  the  right  feller,  and  he  might  have  found 
that  out  later  —  when  he  couldn't  undo  his  deed.  I 
reckon  ye  never  had  a  father  murdered,  did  ye  ?  " 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  129 

*'  Hardly,"  answered  the  girl  with  a  scornful  toss  of 
her  head.  "  You  see  I  wasn't  reared  among  gmv  fight- 
ers." 

"  Well,  I  have,"  responded  the  man  with  imperious 
steadiness.  "  I  was  in  the  Legislature  down  at  Frank- 
fort when  it  happened,  a-helpin'  to  make  the  laws  that 
govern  this  State.  I  was  fer  them  laws  in  theory  — 
but  when  that  word  came,  I  paired  off  with  a  Republican 
so's  not  to  lose  my  vote  on  the  floor  of  the  House,  an'  I 
come  back  here  to  these  hills  an'  got  that  feller.  I 
reckon  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  tell  ye  that,  but  I'm  so 
plumb  ign'rant  that  I  can't  feel  it.  I  knew  how  Jeb 
felt,  an'  so  I  held  him  off  with  a  promise  to  wait.  Of 
course  ye  couldn't  accept  the  help  of  a  man  like 
that  .  .  ." 

He  turned  and  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  pockets. 

"  I'm  through,"  he  added,  "  an'  I'm  obleeged  to  ye 
fer  harkenin'  to  me." 

Juanita  rose  and  stood  before  him,  and  despite  his 
bitter  resentment  of  her  scorn,  he  recognized  in  her  a 
sort  of  courage  he  had  never  before  seen  in  a  woman ; 
a  courage  of  conviction  and  the  crusader's  deep  pur- 
pose. And  she  was  very  beautiful  and  gallant  as  she 
stood  there  and  shook  her  head. 

"  There  is  something  in  your  point  of  view,  Mr. 
Havey,"  she  reluctantly  acknowledged.  "  But  it  is  all 
based  on  twisted  and  distorted  principle. 

"  I  don't  think  myself  a  saint.  I  guess  I'm  pretty 
weak.  My  first  appeal  to  you  was  pure  weakness. 
But  I  stand  for  ideas  that  the  experience  of  the  world 
has  vindicated  and  for  that  reason  I  am  going  to  win. 
That  is  why,  although  I'm  a  girl  with  none  of  your 


130  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

physical  power,  and  no  gun-fighters  at  my  back,  you 
are  secretly  afraid  of  me.  That  is  why  you  are  mak- 
ing unfair  war  on  me.  I  stand  for  the  implacable  force 
of  civilization  that  must  sooner  or  later  sweep  you  away 
and  utterly  destroy  your  dominance." 

For  the  first  time  Bad  Anse  Havey's  face  lost  its  im- 
passiveness.  His  eyes  clouded  and  became  puzzled,  sur- 
prised. "  I  reckon  I  don't  hardly  follow  ye,"  he  said. 
"  If  ye  wants  it  to  be  enemies,  all  right,  but  I  ain't  never 
made  no  war  on  ye.  I  don't  make  war  on  women-folks, 
an'  besides  I  wouldn't  make  a  needless  war  nohow.  All 
I've  got  to  do  is  to  give  ye  enough  rope  an'  watch  ye 
hang  yourself." 

"  If  you  think  that,"  she  demanded  with  a  quick  up- 
leaping  of  anger  in  her  pupils,  "  why  did  you  feel  it 
necessary  to  prevent  my  buying  land?  Why  do  you 
coerce  your  vassals,  under  fear  of  death,  to  refuse  my 
offers?  Why,  if  my  school  means  no  menace,  do  you 
refuse  it  standing  room  to  start  its  fight?  " 

The  man's  pose  stiffened. 

"  Who  told  ye  I'd  hindered  anybody  from  sellin'  ye 
land?" 

"  Wherever  I  inquire  it  is  the  same  thing.  They 
must  ask  permission  of  Bad  Anse  Havey  before  they 
can  do  as  they  wish  with  their  own." 

"  By  God,  that's  another  lie,"  he  said  shortly.  "  But 
I  reckon  ye  believe  that,  too.  I  did  advise  folks  here- 
abouts against  sellin'  to  strangers,  but  that  was  afore 
ye  come."  He  paced  the  length  of  the  room  a  while 
then  halted  before  her. 

"  Some  of  that  property,"  he  went  on,  and  this  time 
his  voice  was  passionate  in  its  earnestness,  "  has  enough 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  131 

coal  an'  timber  on  it  to  make  its  owners  rich  some  day. 
Have  ye  seen  any  of  the  coal-minin'  sections  of  these 
hills?  Well,  go  an'  have  a  look.  Ye  won't  find  any 
mountaineer  richer  fer  the  development.  Ye'll  find  'em 
plundered,  an'  cheated  an'  robbed  of  their  homes  by 
your  civilized  furriner.  I've  done  aimed  ter  pertect 
my  folks  against  bein'  looted.  I  aims  to  go  on  per- 
tectin'  'em." 

"  Ignorance  won't  protect  them,"  she  insisted. 

Suddenly  he  demanded  without  preface.  "  How  old 
are  you?  " 

Her  glance  questioned  his  face  and  his  direct  eyes 
told  her  that  there  was  no  impertinence  in  the  interro- 
gation. 

"  I  am  twenty-two,"  she  curtly  replied. 

*  Twenty-two ! "  he  repeated  after  her,  she  thought 
a  little  scornfully.  "  I'm  just  five  years  more  than  that, 
but  I'm  thirty  years  older  than  you  in  everything  but 
years.  I've  seen  enough  of  all  this  thing  down  here 
not  to  get  wrought  up  about  it.  I've  got  enough  lead 
right  here  in  my  own  body  now,"  he  clapped  one  hand 
to  his  chest  and  went  on  with  the  same  fixed  expression 
and  the  same  calculatedly  calm  voice,  "  to  kill  all  the 
leaders  of  the  McBriar  crowd,  if  it  were  run  back  into 
bullet  molds  again.  Every  day's  liable  to  be  my  last 
day.  I've  shook  the  hands  of  men  thet  was  warm  in 
the  mornin'  an'  gripped  mine  in  friendship,  an'  thet  was 
cold  an'  lifeless  at  sun-down  —  like  his'n."  He  jerked 
his  head  toward  the  bed  and  the  sheeted  form  upon  it. 
"  Yes,  an'  I've  tried  to  keep  the  scores  tol'able  even. 
I'm  in  a  fix  to  lay  by  theories  an'  look  facts  in  the  face, 
I  reckon.  I  don't  hold  out  peace  offerin's  to  men  that 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

are  seekin'  to  knife  me.  I  fight  the  devil  with  fire  an' 
I  tries  to  make  it  hot." 

"  It  hadn't  occurred  to  me  to  doubt  that,"  she  com- 
mented as  he  paused. 

"  I  told  ye  we  was  distrustful  of  foreigners,"  said 
Anse  Havey.  "  Some  day  thar'll  be  a  bigger  war  here 
than  the  Havey-McBriar  war.  Ye've  seen  somethin' 
of  that.  That  other  war  will  be  with  your  people  an' 
when  it  comes  there  won't  be  any  McBriars  or  Haveys. 
We'll  all  be  mountaineers  standin'  together  an'  holdin' 
what  God  gave  us  against  them  that  seeks  to  plunder 
us.  God  knows  I  hate  Milt  McBriar  an'  his  tribe  — 
hate  'em  with  all  the  power  of  hatin'  that's  in  me  — 
an'  I'm  a  mountain  man.  But  Milt's  people  an'  my 
people  have  one  thing  in  common.  We're  mountain  men 
an'  these  hills  are  our'n.  We  have  the  same  killin'  in- 
stinct when  men  seek  to  rob  us.  We  want  to  be  let 
alone,  an'  if  we  fight  amongst  ourselves  it  ain't  nothin' 
to  the  way  we'll  fight,  shoulder  to  shoulder  an'  back  to 
back,  against  the  robbers  from  Down-below." 

The  man  paused  again  and  as  Juanita  looked  into  his 
blazing  eyes  she  shuddered  for  it  seemed  that  the  killing 
instinct  of  which  he  spoke  was  burning  there.  She 
thought  of  nothing  to  say  and  he  went  on. 

"  It's  war  between  families  now  —  but  when  your 
people  come  —  come  to  buy  for  nothin'  and  fatten  on 
our  starvation  we  men  of  the  mountains  will  forget  that 
an*  I  reckon  we'll  fight  together  like  all  damnation 
against  the  rest.  Thet's  why  I'm  counselin'  folks  not 
to  sell  heedless." 

"  Then  you  did  not  forbid  your  people  to  sell  to  me?  " 
inquired  the  girl. 


"  Why  in  hell  should  I  make  war  on  ye  ?  "  he  sud- 
denly inquired.  "  Does  a  man  fight  children?  We 
don't  fight  the  helpless  up  here  in  the  hills." 

"  Possibly,"  she  suggested  with  a  trace  of  irony, 
"  when  you  learn  that  I'm  not  so  helpless  you  won't  be 
so  merciful." 

"  We'll  wait  till  that  time  comes,"  said  the  man 
shortly.  "  Helpless !  Why,  the  good  Lord  knows, 
ma'am,  I  pity  ye.  Can't  ye  see  what  odds  ye're  con- 
tendin'  against?  Can't  ye  see  that  ye're  fightin'  God's 
hills  and  sandstone  an'  winds  an'  thunder?  Can't  ye 
see  ye're  tryin'  ter  take  out  of  men's  veins  the  fire  in 
their  blood;  the  fire  that's  been  burnin'  there  for  two 
centuries?  Ye're  like  a  little  child  tryin'  ter  pull  down 
a  jail-house.  Ye're  singin'  lullaby  songs  to  the  thun- 
der. Yes,  I  feel  right  sorry  fer  ye,  but  I  ain't  a-fightin' 
ye." 

"  I'm  doing  none  of  those  things,"  she  protested  with 
a  defiant  blaze  in  her  eyes ;  "  I'm  only  trying  to  show 
these  people  that  their  ignorance  is  not  necessary,  that 
it's  only  part  of  a  scheme  to  keep  them  vassals.  You 
talk  about  the  wild,  free  spirit  of  the  mountain  men. 
I  think  that  free  men  will  listen  to  that  argument." 

Anse  Havey  laughed. 

"  Change  'em ! "  he  repeated,  disregarding  the  slur 
of  her  last  speech.  "  Why,  if  ye  don't  give  it  up  and 
go  back  to  your  birds  that  pick  at  berries,  do  you  know 
what  will  happen  to  ye?  I'll  tell  ye.  Thar  will  be  a 
change,  but  it  won't  be  in  us.  It'll  be  in  you.  You'll 
be  mountainized." 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him  and  her  violet  eyes  were 
brimming  with  starry  contempt.  Her  delicate  chin 


134  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

tilted  disdainfully  and  her  lips  curled  a  little.  It  was 
such  a  look  as  some  Cassar's  daughter,  borne  on  the 
necks  of  slaves,  might  have  cast  down  on  a  barbarian 
slave  chained  to  his  sweep  in  the  galleys.  So  she  re- 
garded him  for  the  galley  slaves,  too,  had  been  crim- 
inals. 

"  Who  will  change  me  ?  "  she  inquired  with  a  sting- 
ing scorn  of  voice.  "  You  —  and  men  like  you  ?  " 

The  clansman  felt  the  lash  of  her  disdain  with  all  the 
sensitiveness  of  mountain  pride,  but  he  betrayed  no 
recognition. 

"  Mebby  it  won't  be  me,  nor  yet  men  like  me.  But 
the  air  ye  breathe ;  the  life  ye  live ;  the  water  ye  drink, 
all  the  things  that  God  Almighty  forges  in  places  that's 
clost  to  his  free  sky ;  them  things  will  do  it. 

"  Ye  can't  live  where  the  storms  come  from  an'  where 
the  rivers  are  born  an'  not  have  their  spirit  get  into 
your  blood.  Ye  may  think  ye're  in  partners  with  God, 
but  I  reckon  ye'll  find  the  hills  are  bigger  than  you  be. 
How  much  land  do  ye  need?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  by  God,  I  aim  to  see  that  ye  get  it.  Ye 
say  I'm  scaired  of  ye.  I  aim  to  show  ye  how  much 
I'm  scaired.  I  aim  to  let  ye  go  your  own  fool  way,  an* 
flounder  in  your  own  quicksand.  An'  if  nobody  won't 
sell  ye  what  ye  want,  let  me  know  an',  by  Almighty  God, 
I'll  make  ye  a  free  gift  of  a  farm,  an'  I'll  build  your 
school  myself.  Thet's  how  much  I'm  scaired  of  ye. 
I've  tried  to  be  friends  with  ye  an'  ye  won't  have  it. 
Now  just  go  as  fur  as  ye  feel  inclined  an'  see  how  much 
I  mind  ye."  He  turned  abruptly  on  his  heel  and  went 
out,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THAT  summer  Juanita's  cabin  had  risen  on  the  small 
patch  of  ground  bought  from  the  Widow  Everson, 
for  in  these  hills  the  raising  of  a  house  is  a  simple 
thing  which  goes  forward  subject  to  no  delays  of  strik- 
ing workmen  or  balking  contractors.  The  usual  type 
with  its  single  room  may  be  reared  in  a  few  days  by 
volunteers  who  turn  their  labor  into  a  frolic.  Neigh- 
bors lend  a  hand,  and  there  are  no  bosses  and  no  under- 
lings, but  each  man  is  a  monarch  contributing  his  labor 
as  an  equal,  and  the  smell  of  freshly  sawed  lumber  goes 
up  like  incense  in  the  air,  while  the  simple  craftsmen 
strive  mightily  in  a  good-humored  rivalry  of  skill  and 
brawn. 

To  Juanita's  ears  the  sound  of  the  hammers  and  the 
scream  of  the  little  portable  saw-mill  down  in  the  valley 
had  been  a  music  in  keeping  with  the  languorous  haze 
of  the  horizon  and  the  spicy  fragrance  of  the  cider 
presses.  She  had  owed  much  to  Jerry  Everson  and 
to  Good  Anse  Talbott,  for,  had  her  building  force  been 
solidly  of  Havey  or  McBriar  complexion,  the  school 
would  henceforth  have  stood  branded,  in  native  eyes,  a 
feud  institution. 

But  Good  Anse  and  Jerry,  who  were  tolerated  by 
both  factions,  and  were  gifted  with  a  rough-hewn  dip- 
lomacy, had  known  upon  whom  to  call,  even  while  they 

had  seemed  to  select  at  random.     So  a  stanch  little 

13* 


136  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

house  of  squared  logs  had  gone  up  in  a  place  just  above 
and  to  the  right  of  the  widow's,  where  the  girl  could 
see  from  her  window  the  tall  poplar  on  the  crest.  It  had 
three  rooms,  and  she  had  been  gayer  and  blither  while 
she  supervised  her  volunteer  helpers  than  at  any  other 
time  since  she  had  come  to  these  hills. 

Something  of  herself  had  gone  into  the  fashioning 
which  gave  the  place,  in  spite  of  the  meager  limita- 
tions of  remoteness  and  isolation,  a  touch  of  art  and 
character.  She  had  designed  and  helped  build  a  hearth 
of  rough  stone,  which  would  not  only  warm,  but  decorate 
as  well.  She  had  seen  to  the  thoroughness  of  the  chink- 
ing, too,  until  one  man  who  dwelt  in  a  wind-riddled  house 
of  his  own  gravely  shook  his  head  and  expressed  fear 
that,  "  She  war  liable  ter  suiter  an'  sicken  fer  lack  of 
fresh  air."  The  windows  he  regarded  with  even 
greater  suspicion  as  making  a  needless  concession  to 
one's  enemies. 

Juanita  Holland  had  grown  up  largely  with  boys. 
Of  late,  since  she  had  fancied  herself  disappointed  be- 
yond retrieving  of  heart,  she  had  been  asking  herself 
often  the  question,  "  Why  are  boys  so  much  manlier 
than  men  ? "  But  these  big,  loosely -knit,  leathern- 
sinewed  creatures,  bearded  like  prophets,  were  more 
boys  than  men  after  all  and  for  them  she  felt  a  quick 
comradeship. 

The  cabin  had  been  finished  just  before  the  news 
came  of  the  death  of  Fletch  McNash,  and  Jerry  Ever- 
son  had  gone  over  with  her  to  survey  and  admire  it. 

As  he  stood  under  the  newly  laid  roof,  sniffing  the 
fresh  woody  fragrance  of  the  green  timbers  he  pro- 
duced from  under  his  coat  what  looked  like  a  giant  pow- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  137 

der  horn.  He  had  scraped  and  polished  it  until  it 
shone  like  varnish  and  he  hung  it  bj  its  leather  thong 
above  the  hearth. 

"  What  is  it  for,  Jerry  ?  "  demanded  the  girl ;  and  he 
took  it  down  again  and  set  it  to  his  lips  and  blew.  A 
mellow  sound,  not  loud,  but  far-carrying  like  the  fox 
hunter's  tallyho  floated  over  the  valley.  "  Our  house 
hain't  more'n  a  whoop  an'  a  holler  away,"  he  said 
awkwardly,  "  but  when  ye're  livin'  over  hyar  by  yore- 
self  ef  ye  ever  wants  anything  in  ther  night  time  jest 
blow  thet  horn."  After  she  had  almost  burst  her  cheeks 
in  her  effort  he  added  with  a  grin,  "  Don't  never  blow 
this  signal  onlesson  ye  wants  ter  raise  merry  hell."  He 
imitated  very  low  through  pursed  lips  three  long  blasts 
and  three  short  ones. 

"  What  does  that  signify  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Ye've  done  already  heered  ther  McBriar  yell,"  he 
reminded  her.  "  Well  them  three  longs  an'  three  shorts 
is  ther  Havey  rallyin'  call.  When  thet  goes  out  every 
Havey  thet  kin  tote  a  gun's  got  ter  git  up  an'  come. 
Hit  means  war." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Juanita.  Then  she  laughed  and 
quoted  low  to  herself, 

"  Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan  who  lingers  at  his  home, 
When  Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium  is  on  the  march  for  Rome." 

In  a  minute  she  added,  "  Thank  you,  Jerry.  I  won't 
call  the  Haveys  to  battle." 

The  night  after  she  had  flung  her  challenge  down  to 
Bad  Anse  Havey,  Juanita  stayed  at  the  McNash  cabin, 
to  be  with  Dawn  and  the  widow.  The  next  day  she  went 
with  them  to  the  mountain-side  "  buryin'  ground " 


138  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

where  Good  Anse  performed  the  last  rites  for  the  dead. 

The  "jolt-wagon  "  which  carried  the  unpainted  box 
was  drawn  ploddingly  by  oxen,  for  the  "  buryin' 
ground "  lay  up  a  steep  trail,  and  the  funeral  pro- 
cession made  its  way  in  a  laborious  and  straggling  line. 
It  was  a  strange  cortege  and  mournful  despite  the 
bright  calico  of  the  women's  dresses.  As  they  rode, 
mountain-fashion,  facing  to  the  side  and  shaking  their 
arms  like  wings,  they  would  have  made  a  picture  gro- 
tesquely funny  had  it  not  been  so  grotesquely  wretched 
and  somber.  The  dusty  purple  of  the  iron-weed  tops 
seemed  to  be  waving  plumes  of  ragged  mourning,  and 
in  a  patch  of  briars  they  came  to  the  freshly  dug  grave, 
where  the  sun  glinted  on  the  men's  rifle-barrels. 

Juanita,  looking  around  the  circle,  saw  the  still, 
apathetic  face  of  the  wife,  and  the  tearful  one  of  Little 
Dawn,  and  she  wondered  if  her  own  features  were  as 
stolid  as  those  others  about  her.  Here  where  the 
ridges  piled  up  with  such  a  power  of  accumulated  sul- 
lenness,  all  outward  display  of  emotion  seemed  out  of 
place.  She  watched  the  grim-set  lips  and  tightly 
clenched  hands  of  Jeb  and  Little  Jesse  as  their  eyes 
with  one  accord  traveled  toward  the  eastern  ridges, 
where  dwelt  the  authors  of  this  death,  and  she  shud- 
deringly  felt  that  this  burial  marked  not  an  end,  but  a 
beginning.  So  she  looked  away  from  those  faces,  sick- 
ened by  forebodings,  though  deeply  in  sympathy,  too, 
and  her  eyes  met,  across  the  open  grave,  those  of  Bad 
Anse  Havey. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  must  read  their  message. 
"  For  all  this  I  challenge  you,"  but  his  eyes  did  not 
shift  nor  alter. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  139 

Through  it  all;  through  the  sing-song  drone  of 
Brother  Talbott's  "  discourse  " ;  through  the  whining 
falsetto  of  their  hymn-singing,  even  through  the  thud  of 
clod  on  casket,  one  impression  seemed  printing  itself  in- 
effaceably  on  her  brain.  It  was  an  impression  of  guns. 

With  the  scorched  green  behind  them,  with  the  red 
and  blue  calico  and  the  hodden  gray  of  their  clothing, 
there  was  color  enough,  yet  the  most  insistent  note  of 
the  picture  was  the  dull  gleam  of  their  rifles.  The  one 
scrupulously  clean  and  modern  note,  too,  was  in  the  con- 
dition and  pattern  of  their  weapons. 

Men  might  go  unshaven  and  unwashed,  but  their 
arms  were  greased  and  polished  and  they  came  to  the 
funeral  under  arms  —  for  the  history  of  to-day  might 
repeat  the  history  of  yesterday. 

After  that  was  over,  and  after  it  had  been  decided 
that  the  widow  was  to  take  the  younger  children  up 
Meeting  House  Fork  to  dwell  with  a  brother,  the  mis- 
sionary and  the  teacher  started  back.  Jeb  was  to  stay 
here  alone  to  run  the  farm,  and  when  Juanita  returned 
to  the  ridge  Dawn  went  with  her. 

Juanita  had  insisted  on  this.  She  could  not  bear 
to  think  of  her  little  protegee  losing  herself  in  the  un- 
couth environment  of  the  "  branch-water  folks  " ;  and 
she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  losing  the  influence  she 
had  won  over  the  child  just  at  the  transitory  period 
of  life  where  influences  were  so  vital. 

So  when  they  turned  back  Dawn  sat  perched  on  a 
pillion  behind  Good  Anse  Talbott,  and  Jeb,  watching  his 
family  separate  in  two  directions,  leaned  a  solitary 
figure  on  the  stile  and  twisted  his  bare  toes  in  the  hot 
dust.  He  gazed  staringly  at  the  blistered  woods, 


140  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

and  on  his  face  sat  murder  in  the  making.  The  reflec- 
tions that  were  to  be  his  companions  in  solitude,  were 
thoughts  that  would  rankle  and  spur  him  to  his  sorry 
destiny. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  misery  in  Juanita  Holland's  eyes 
that  elicited  from  the  missionary,  after  a  long  and 
silent  ride,  an  abrupt  question. 

"  Wall,  ma'am,  hev  ye  done  got  enough  ?  Does  ye 
still  aim  ter  tarry  in  these  parts?  " 

She  looked  up  and  besides  the  bewilderment  and  pain 
in  her  clouded  pupils  there  was  also  the  hurt  as  if  of 
xn  accusation  of  cowardice.  "  Tarry !  "  she  exclaimed, 
"  of  course.  Why  shouldn't  I  stay  ?  " 

"  Wall,"  his  weary  eyes  went  gazing  off  up  the 
slopes,  "  I  reckon  ye  hain't  hardly  had  a  good  time 
up  hyar,  an'  hit's  mighty  liable  ter  git  wuss.  Ye  see, 
ye've  done  made  Anse  Havey  mad,  an'  hit  looks  right 
smart  like  ye're  takin'  a  heap  of  pains  fer  nothin'." 

"  For  nothing ! "  She  wondered  if  it  were  for  noth- 
ing. Others  might  "  warn "  her  for  purposes  of  in- 
timidation; their  gloomy  prophecies  might  be  inspired, 
but  from  the  sad,  world-weary  lips  of  Brother  Anse  and 
the  tired  soul  in  his  tired  body  would  come  no  false 
message.  "  Do  you  believe  it's  for  nothing,  Brother 
Anse?  Haven't  you  given  your  life  to  it?  Has  it 
all  been  vain  ?  Do  you  regret  it  r  " 

Very  slowly  and  wearily  he  shook  his  head.  "  No, 
but  I  was  born  amongst  'em  an'  God  laid  this  work  on 
me  ter  chasten  me  an'  give  me  a  chanst  ter  live  down 
my  iniquities.  I  didn't  hev  no  choice  an'  yit  some- 
times — '  He  paused  and  added  in  a  dead  voice, 
"  Sometimes  hit  seems  mightily  like  I  hain't  accom- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  141 

plished  nothin'.  They  listens  ter  me,  but  they  goes 
right  back  an'  sheds  blood  ergin.  Hit's  born  in  'em 
an'  when  they  dies  they  passes  hit  down  ter  their  chil- 
dren." 

"  I  hoped,"  she  told  him  with  gentle  reproach,  "  that 
you  at  least  could  see  some  value  in  my  efforts ;  that  you 
sympathized  with  them." 

The  missionary  looked  into  her  face  and  his  eyes 
burned  with  the  fierce  fire  of  prophecy. 

"  Little  gal,"  he  said  vehemently,  "  hit  looks  ter 
me  like  ye're  a  plumb  saint  sent  by  Almighty  God,  but 
I  kain't  b'ar  ter  see  yore  heart  broke.  Hit's  a  young 
heart  an'  these  mountings  will  shorely  break  hit. 
They're  too  big  an'  men  like  Anse  an'  Milt  will  stop 
ye.  God  knows  I  wants  ter  see  ye  stay,  but  God 
knows  I  counsels  ye  ter  go." 

"  I'll  stay,"  she  said  simply. 

After  that  they  rode  in  silence  until  Dawn  from  her 
pillion  spoke  for  the  first  time.  They  were  passing 
a  tumbling  waterfall,  shrunken  now  to  a  trickling  rill. 
On  each  side  loomed  huge  sentinels  of  moss-covered 
rock. 

"  Onct  when  I  war  a  leetle  gal,"  she  said,  "  Unc' 
Perry  war  a-hidin'  out  up  thet  branch  from  ther  reve- 
nuers.  I  used  ter  fetch  his  victuals  up  thar  ter  him." 

Juanita  turned  suddenly  with  a  shocked  expression. 
It  was  as  if  her  little  song-bird  friend  had  suddenly 
and  violently  reverted;  as  if  the  flower  had  turned  to 
poison  weed.  And  as  Juanita  looked,  Dawn's  eyes  were 
blazing  and  Dawn's  face  was  as  dark  as  her  black  hair ; 
dark  with  the  same  expression  which  brooded  on  her 
brother's  brow, 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  Juanita  asked ;  and  in  a  tense 
and  fiery  voice  the  younger  girl  exclaimed: 

"  I  wishes  I  war  a  man.  I  wouldn't  wait  and  set  still 
like  Jeb's  doin'.  By  God,  I'd  git  thet  murderer.  I'd 
cut  his  heart  outen  his  body." 

"  I  tole  ye,"  quietly  mused  Brother  Anse,  "  thet  ther 
instinct's  in  ther  blood.  Anse  Havey  went  down  ter 
Frankfort  an'  set  in  ther  Legislater  —  but  he  come  back 
ther  same  man  thet  went  down.  Somethin'  called  him. 
Somethin'  calls  ter  every  mountain  man  thet  goes  away, 
an'  he  hearkens  ter  ther  call." 

"  Anse  come  back,"  repeated  Dawn  triumphantly. 
"  An'  Anse  is  hyar.  Ef  Jeb  sets  thar  an'  don't  do 
nothin'  I  reckon  Anse  Havey  won't  hardly  pass  hit  by 
without  doin'  nothin'.  Thank  God  thar's  some  men 
left  in  ther  hills  like  Anse  Havey  .  .  .  but  ef  Jeb  don't 
do  nothin'  and  Anse  don't  do  nothin'  I'll  do  hit  myself." 

Again  Juanita  shuddered,  but  it  was  not  the  time  for 
argument  and  so  she  went  on,  bitterly  accusing  Anse 
Havey  in  her  heart  for  his  wizard  hold  on  these  people ; 
a  hold  which  incited  them  to  bloodshed  as  the  fanatical 
priests  of  the  desert  urge  on  their  wild  tribesmen. 

She  did  not  know  that  Bad  Anse  Havey  went  every 
few  days  over  to  the  desolated  cabin  and  often  per- 
suaded the  boy  to  ride  home  with  him  and  spend  a 
part  of  the  time  in  his  larger  brick  house.  She  did 
not  know  that  Bad  Anse  was  coming  nearer  to  lying 
than  he  had  ever  before  come,  in  withholding  his  strong 
suspicions  from  the  boy  because  of  his  unwillingness  to 
incite  another  tragedy.  So  when  one  day  a  McBriar 
henchman  by  the  name  of  Luke  Thixton  had  left  the 
mountains  and  gone  West,  Anse  hoped  that  this  man 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  143 

would  stay  away  for  a  long  while,  and  he  refrained 
from  mentioning  to  Jeb  that  now,  when  the  bird  had 
flown  he  knew  definitely  of  his  guilt.  Proof  positive 
had  confirmed  his  deeply  grounded  suspicions  too  late 
and  he  had  made  no  effort  to  intercept  the  refugee. 
Now  he  set  himself  methodically  about  the  task  of 
guarding  the  boy  lest  his  suspicions  should  go  baying 
on  a  false  trail. 

While  Dawn,  under  the  guidance  of  her  preceptress, 
was  making  the  acquaintance  of  a  new  and  sweeter  life 
whose  influences  fed  her  imagination  and  fired  her  quick 
ambition,  her  brother  was  more  solemnly  being  molded 
by  the  Havey  chief.  He  was  drinking  in,  as  Anse 
Havey  read,  the  lives  of  the  men  of  whom  Plutarch 
wrote  and  of  the  laws  of  his  own  State  which  should 
arm  him  to  safeguard  his  timber  and  coal  against  the 
depredations  of  the  foreigner.  Each  teacher  thought 
of  the  other  as  an  irreconcilable  foe,  and  each  had  at 
heart,  without  realizing  it,  the  same  object.  Each  was 
striving  in  honesty  and  earnestness,  to  protect  and 
strengthen  the  same  people. 

The  water-mill  of  old  Bob  McGreeger  was  the  near- 
est spot  to  the  dwelling  of  Bad  Anse  Havey  where  grist 
could  be  ground  to  meal  and  sometimes  when  Jeb  came 
over  to  the  brick  house  he  would  volunteer  to  throw 
upon  his  shoulders  the  sack  of  corn  and  plod  with  it  up 
across  the  ridges.  He  would  sit  there  in  the  dusty  old 
mill  while  the  slow  wheel  groaned  and  creaked  and  the 
cumbersome  mill-stones  did  their  slow  stint  of  work. 

So  one  day  toward  the  end  of  August,  Juanita,  who 
had  climbed  up  the  path  to  the  poplar  to  look  over 


144  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

her  battle-field  and  renew  her  vows,  saw  Jeb  sturdily 
plodding  his  way  in  long  resolute  strides  through  the 
woods  toward  the  mill,  with  a  heavy  sack  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, and  a  rifle  swinging  at  his  side.  His  face  was 
sullen  as  usual,  with  downcast  eyes,  but  he  did  not  see 
her,  and  she  did  not  call  to  him  as  he  passed  on  and  out 
of  sight  in  the  sun-burned  woods.  That  day  chance 
had  it  that  no  one  else  had  come  to  mill  and  Bob  Mc- 
Greeger  had  persuaded  the  boy  to  drink  from  the 
"  leetle  blue  kag  "  until  his  mind  was  ripe  for  mischief. 
While  the  mill-stones  slowly  crushed  out  his  meal  Jeb 
McNash  sat  on  a  pile  of  rubbish  in  the  gloomy  shack, 
nursing  his  knees  in  interlocked  fingers.  Old  Bob 
drank  and  stormed,  and  cursed  the  inertia  of  the  pres- 
ent generation.  The  lad's  lean  fingers  tautened  and 
gripped  themselves  more  tensely  and  his  eyes  began  to 
smolder  and  blaze  with  a  wicked  light  as  he  listened. 

"  Ye  looks  like  a  right  stand-up  sort  of  a  boy,  Jeb," 
growled  the  old  fire-eater,  who  had  set  more  than  a  few 
couples  at  each  other's  throats.  "  An'  I  reckon  hit's 
all  right,  too,  fer  a  feller  ter  'bide  his  time,  but  hit  'pears 
ter  me  like  ther  men  of  these  days  don't  do  nothin'  but 
bide  thar  time." 

"  I  won't  bide  mine  no  longer  then  what  I  has  ter," 
snapped  the  boy.  "  Anse  'lows  ter  tell  me  when  he 
finds  out  who  hit  war  thet  got  my  pap.  Thet's  all  I 
needs  ter  know." 

Old  Bob  McGreeger  shook  his  head  knowingly  and 
laughed  in  his  tangled  beard.  "  I  reckon  Anse  Havey'll 
take  his  leisure.  He's  got  other  fish  ter  fry.  He's 
a  thinkin'  'bout  bigger  things  than  yore  grievance, 
son." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  145 

The  boy  rose  and  his  voice  came  very  quietly  and 
ominously  from  suddenly  whitened  lips.  "  What  does 
ye  mean  by  thet,  Uncle  Bob?  " 

"  Mebby  I  don't  mean  nothin'  much.  Then  ergin 
mebby  I  could  give  ye  a  pretty-good  idee  who  kilt  yore 
pap.  Mebby  I  could  tell  ye  'bout  a  feller  —  a  feller 
thet  hain't  fur  removed  from  Old  Milt  hisself  —  thet 
went  'snoopin'  acrost  ther  ridge  ther  same  day  yore 
pap  died,  with  a  rifle-gun  crost  his  elbow,  an'  his 
pockets  strutty  with  ca'tridges." 

It  was  as  if  each  word  were  a  hot  needle  galling  and 
irritating  the  obsession  about  which  the  lad's  thoughts 
had  been  pivoting  and  pirouetting  for  weeks  with  night- 
mare grotesquerie. 

The  finger  nails  of  his  two  hands  bit  into  their  palms 
and  his  brows  drew  themselves  into  a  wrinkled  mask  of 
malevolence. 

"Who  war  he?"  came  the  tense  demand  with  the 
sudden  snap  of  rifle-fire.  "  Who  war  thet  feller?  " 

Old  Bob  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe  with  fingers  that 
had  grown  unsteady  from  the  ministration  of  the 
"  leetle  blue  kag."  He  laughed  again  in  a  satirical, 
drunken  fashion. 

"  Ef  Bad  Anse  Havey  don't  'low  ter  tell  ye,  son,"  he 
artfully  demurred,  "  I  reckon  hit  wouldn't  hardly  be 
becomin'  fer  me  ter  name  his  name." 

The  boy  picked  up  his  battered  hat.  "  Give  me  my 
grist,"  he  said  shortly.  He  stood  by  breathing 
heavily,  but  silently  while  the  sack  was  being  tied,  then 
putting  it  down  by  the  door,  he  wheeled  and  faced  the 
older  man. 

"  Now  ye're   a-goin'   ter  tell  me  what   I   needs   ter 


146  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

know,"  he  said  quietly,  "  or  I'm  a-goin'  ter  kill  ye  whar 
ye  stands." 

Uncle  Bob  laughed.  He  had  meant  all  the  while  to 
impart  that  succulent  bit  of  information,  which  was  no 
information  at  all,  but  mischief-making  suspicion.  He 
had  held  off  only  to  infuriate  and  envenom  the  boy 
with  the  cumulative  force  of  climax. 

"  Hit  warn't  nobody  but  — "  after  a  pause  he  went 
on  — "  but  Old  Milt  McBriar's  own  son,  young  Milt." 

"Thet's  all,"  said  Jeb  soberly;  "I'm  obleeged  ter 

ye." 

He  went  out  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulder  and  the 
rifle  under  his  arm,  but  when  he  had  reached  a  place 
in  the  woods  where  a  blind  trail  struck  back,  he  de- 
posited his  sack  carefully  under  a  ledge  of  overhanging 
rock.  The  clouds  were  mounting  and  banking  now  in 
a  threat  of  rain  and  since  it  was  not  his  own  meal  he 
carried  he  must  be  doubly  careful  of  its  safety. 

Then  he  crossed  the  ridge  until  he  came  to  a  point 
where  the  thicket  grew  down  close  and  tangled  to  the 
road.  He  had  seen  young  Milt  going  west  along  that 
road  this  morning  and  by  nightfall  he  would  be  riding 
back.  The  gods  of  Chance  were  playing  into  his 
hands. 

So  he  lay  down,  closely  hugging  the  earth,  and  cocked 
his  rifle.  For  hours  he  crouched  there  with  unspeak- 
able patience,  while  his  muscles  cramped  and  his  feet 
and  hands  grew  cold  under  the  pelting  of  a  rain  which 
was  strangely  raw  and  chilling  for  the  season.  The 
sun  sank  in  an  angry  bank  of  thunder  heads  and  the 
west  grew  lurid.  The  drenching  downpour  blinded 
him  and  trickled  down  his  spine  under  his  clothes,  but  at 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  147 

last  he  saw  the  figure  he  had  expected,  riding  a  horse 
which  he  knew.  It  was  the  same  roan  mare  that  Bad 
Anse  had  restored  to  Milt  McBriar  after  that  other 
day. 

When  young  Milt  rode  slowly  by,  fifty  yards  away 
with  his  mount  at  a  walk  and  his  reins  hanging  he  was 
untroubled  by  any  anxiety  because  he  was  in  his  own 
territory  and  was  at  heart  fearless.  The  older  boy 
from  Tribulation  felt  his  temples  throb  and  the  rifle 
came  slowly  up,  and  the  one  eye  which  was  not  closed 
looked  point-blank  across  immovable  sights  and  along 
a  steady  barrel  into  the  placid  face  of  his  intended  vic- 
tim. He  could  see  the  white  of  Milt's  eye  and  the 
ragged  lock  of  hair  under  the  hat-brim  which  looked 
like  a  smudge  of  soot  across  his  brow.  Then  slowly 
Jeb  McNash  shook  his  head.  A  spasm  of  battle  went 
through  him  and  shook  him  like  a  convulsion  to  the 
soles  of  his  feet.  He  had  but  to  crook  his  finger  to 
appease  his  blood-lust  —  and  break  his  pledge. 

"  I've  done  give  Anse  my  hand  ter  bide  my  time 
'twell  I  war  dead  sartain,"  he  told  himself.  "  I  hain't 
quite  dead  sartain  yit.  I  reckon  I've  got  ter  wait  a 
spell." 

He  uncocked  the  rifle  and  the  other  boy  rode  on,  but 
young  Jeb  folded  his  arms  on  the  wet  earth  and  buried 
his  face  in  them  and  sobbed,  and  it  was  an  hour  later 
that  he  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  went  groggily  back, 
drunk  with  bitterness  and  emotion  toward  the  house  of 
Anse  Havey.  Yet  when  he  arrived  after  nightfall  his 
tongue  told  nothing  and  his  features  revealed  less. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

JTJANITA,  living  in  the  cabin  she  had  built,  with 
the  girl  who  had  become  her  companion  and 
satellite;  making  frequent  hard  journeys  to  some 
house  which  the  shadow  of  illness  had  invaded,  found 
it  hard  to  believe  that  this  life  had  been  hers  only  a  few 
months.  Suspense  seemed  to  stretch  weeks  to  years 
and  she  awoke  each  new  day  braced  to  hear  the  news  of 
some  fresh  outbreak,  and  wondered  why  she  did  not 
hear  it.  A  few  neighborhood  children  were  already 
learning  their  rudiments,  and  plans  for  more  building 
were  going  forward. 

Sometimes  Jeb  came  over  from  the  brick  house  to  see 
his  sister  and  on  the  boy's  face  was  always  a  dark 
cloud  of  settled  resolve.  If  Juanita  never  questioned 
him  on  the  topic  that  she  knew  was  nearest  his  heart 
it  was  because  she  realized  that  to  do  so  would  be  the 
surest  way  to  estrange  his  friendship  and  confidence. 

In  one  thing  she  had  gained  a  point.  She  had 
bought  as  much  property  as  she  would  need,  probably 
much  more  than  she  would  need  unless  her  dreams  were 
fulfilled  to  a  degree  that  lay  beyond  the  probabilities. 

Back  somewhere  behind  the  veil  of  mysteries  Anse 
Havey  had  pressed  a  button  or  spoken  a  word  and  all 
the  hindrance  that  had  lain  across  her  path  straight- 
way evaporated.  Men  had  come  to  her,  with  no  fur- 
ther solicitation  on  her  part,  and  now  it  seemed  that 

J48 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  149 

many  were  animated  by  a  desire  to  turn  an  honest 
penny  by  the  sale  of  land.  In  every  conveyance  that 
was  drawn  —  deeds  of  ninety-nine-year  lease  instead 
of  sale  —  she  read  a  thrifty  and  careful  knowledge  of 
land  laws,  and  reservation  of  mineral  and  timber  rights, 
which  she  traced  to  the  head  of  the  clan. 

Anse  Havey  had  seemed  ready  to  abide  by  his  pro- 
posal, for  when  she  met  him  on  the  road  one  day,  in- 
stead of  riding  by  her  with  a  curt,  high-headed  nod  he 
drew  rein  and  asked  brusquely,  "  Got  all  the  land  ye 
need?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  statuesquely  sitting  his  horse  and 
raised  her  brows  inquiringly.  "  Why  ? "  she  asked 
coolly. 

"  Because  if  ye  ain't  I  stands  ready  to  supply  the 
balance." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  told  him,  partly  because  it  gave 
her  a  feminine  pleasure  to  bring  that  glitter  of  cold 
wrath  to  his  eyes.  "  I  only  ask  you  to  be  just.  I 
sha'n't  tax  your  generosity." 

"  Suit  yourself,"  was  his  short  reply.  "  I'm  ready 
to  keep  my  word.  It  looks  like  a  pity  fer  ye  to  sink 
so  much  money  on  a  plant  ye  won't  never  have  no  call1 
to  use,  but  that's  your  business." 

Her  eyes  flashed  anger.  "  Is  that  a  threat  ?  "  she 
inquired.  "  It  doesn't  frighten  me.  I  shall  use  it 
enough  to  bring  your  system  to  ruins." 

He  laughed.  "  Go  ahead,"  he  said.  "  An'  any 
time  ye  needs  more  rope  call  on  me." 

As  summer  spent  itself  there  was  opportunity  for 
felling  timber  and  the  little  saw-mill  down  in  the  valley 
sent  up  its  drone  and  whine  in  proclamation  that  her 


150  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

trees  were  being  turned  into  squared  timbers  for  her 
buildings.  Often  she  would  go  down  there  and  watch 
the  pile  grow  and  every  log  that  went  groaning  against 
the  teeth  of  the  ripping  disc,  was,  to  her,  a  new  block 
for  her  house  of  dreams. 

When  one  or  two  solid  buildings  should  stand  there 
it  would  all  seem  more  tangible.  Now,  because  of  the 
murmurs  of  warning  which  continued  to  come  to  her, 
she  could  not  shake  off  the  sense  that  she  might  on  any 
morning  awake  to  find  her  whole  scheme  a  shattered 
vision.  It  concerned  no  man,  whispered  the  vague,  dis- 
quieting little  voices  of  rumor,  to  prevent  her  building 
a  plant  if  she  chose  to  do  so  in  the  face  of  warning, 
but  hands  might  fall  blightingly  and  arrestingly  on  that 
plant  when  its  operation  was  attempted. 

Once  when  Milt  McBriar  rode  up  to  the  saw-mill  he 
found  the  girl  sitting  there,  her  hands  clasped  on  her 
knees,  gazing  dreamily  across  the  sawdust  and  con- 
fusion of  the  place. 

"Ye're  right-smart  interested  in  thet  thar  wood- 
pile, hain't  ye,  ma'am? "  he  inquired  with  a  slow 
benevolent  smile.  His  kindliness  of  guise  invited  con- 
fidence and  there  was  no  one  else  within  earshot,  so  the 
girl  looked  up  with  her  eyes  a  little  misty  and  her  voice 
impulsive. 

"  Mr.  McBriar,"  she  said,  "  every  one  of  those  tim- 
bers means  part  of  a  dream  to  me,  and  with  every  one 
of  them  that  is  set  in  place  will  go  a  hope  and  a  prayer." 

He  nodded  sympathetically.  "  I  reckon,"  he  said, 
*'  ye  kin  do  right-smart  good,  too." 

"  Mr.  McBriar,"  she  flashed  at  him  in  point-blank 
questioning,  "  since  I  came  here  I  have  tried  to  be  of 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  151 

use  in  a  very  simple  and  ineffective  fashion.  I  have 
done  what  little  I  could  for  the  sick  and  distressed,  yet 
I  am  constantly  being  warned  that  I'm  not  to  be  al- 
lowed to  carry  on  my  work.  Do  you  know  of  any 
reason  why  I  shouldn't  go  ahead?  " 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  quizzically,  then  shook 
his  head. 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  wouldn't  let  no  sich 
talk  es  thet  fret  me  none.  Folks  hyarabouts  hain't 
got  much  ter  do  except  ter  gossip  round.  Nobody 
hain't  a-goin'  ter  hinder  ye.  We  hain't  such  bad  peo- 
ple, after  all."  After  that  she  felt  that  from  the  Mc- 
Briars  she  had  gained  official  sanction,  and  her  re- 
sentment against  Anse  Havey  grew,  because  of  his 
scornful  ungraciousness. 

The  last  weeks  of  that  summer  were  weeks  of  drought 
and  plague.  Ordinarily  in  the  hills  storms  brew  swiftly 
and  frequently  and  spend  themselves  in  violent  out- 
pourings and  cannonading  of  thunder,  but  that  year  the 
clouds  seemed  to  have  dried  up,  and  down  in  the  table- 
lands of  the  Bluegrass  the  crops  were  burned  to  worth- 
less stalk  and  shrunken  ear.  Even  up  here  in  the  birth- 
place of  waters,  the  corn  was  brown  and  sapless  so  that 
when  a  breeze  strayed  over  the  hillside  fields  they  sent 
up  a  thirsty,  dying  rasp  of  rattling  whisper. 

But  it  was  not  only  in  the  famished  forests  and 
seared  fields  that  the  hot  breath  of  the  Plague  breathed, 
carrying  death  in  its  fetid  nostrils.  Back  in  the  cabins 
of  the  "  branch-water  folks  "  where  little  springs  di- 
minished and  became  polluted,  all  those  who  were  not 
strong  enough  to  throw  off  the  touch  of  the  specter's 
finger,  sickened  and  died,  and  typhoid  went  impartially 


152  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

in  and  out  of  Havey  shack  and  McBriar  cabin,  whis- 
pering, "  A  pest  on  both  your  houses !  " 

The  Widow  McNash  had  not  been  herself  since  the 
death  of  Fletch.  She,  who  had  once  been  so  strong 
over  her  drudgery,  now  sat  day  long  on  the  doorstep 
of  her  brother's  hovel  and  in  the  language  of  her  peo- 
ple, "jest  sickened  an'  pined  away." 

So,  as  Juanita  Holland  and  Good  Anse  Talbott  rode 
sweating  mules  about  the  hills,  receiving  calls  for  help 
faster  than  they  could  answer  them,  they  were  not 
astonished  to  hear  that  the  widow  was  among  the 
stricken.  Though  they  fought  for  her  life  she  re- 
fused to  fight  herself,  and  once  again  the  Eastern  girl 
stood  with  Dawn  in  the  briar-choked  "  buryin'  ground  " 
and  once  more  across  an  open  grave  she  met  the  eyes  of 
the  men  who  stood  for  the  old  order.  But  now  she  had 
learned  to  set  a  lock  on  her  lips  and  hold  her  counsel. 
So,  when  she  met  Anse  and  Jeb  afterward,  she  asked 
without  rancor,  "  May  I  take  little  Jesse  back  with  me, 
too?  He's  too  young,"  she  added  with  just  a  heart- 
sick trace  of  her  old  defiance,  "  to  be  useful  to  you,  Mr. 
Havey,  and  I'd  like  to  teach  him  what  I  can." 

Anse  and  Jeb  conferred  and  the  elder  man  came 
back  and  nodded  his  head. 

"  Jesse  can  go  back  with  ye,"  he  said.  "  I'm  still 
aimin5  to  give  ye  all  the  rope  ye  wants.  When  ye've 
had  enough  an'  quits,  let  me  know,  an'  I'll  take  care  of 
Fletch's  children." 

Strangely  enough  the  death  of  her  mother  did  not 
seem  to  bring  as  much  torture  to  the  soul  of  the  moun- 
tain girl  as  had  that  of  her  father.  Often,  indeed,  she 
sat  with  a  wide  stare  in  her  deep  eyes  and  an  agonized 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  153 

twist  on  her  petal-like  lips,  in  the  mute  suffering  of  a 
stoic  race.  But  Juanita  saw  that  this  hard  form  of 
sorrow  was  yielding,  and  that  even  in  a  few  weeks  the 
new  and,  to  Dawn,  wonderful  phases  of  life  here  at  the 
Holland  cabin  would  rouse  her  out  of  herself.  All  un- 
consciously her  silvery  peals  of  laughter  would  ring  out 
at  each  fresh  challenge  to  her  sense  of  humor  and  merri- 
ment. She  spoke  no  more  of  vengeful  thoughts  and 
Juanita  believed  that  she  was  once  more  the  light- 
hearted  song-bird,  the  depths  of  whose  nature  had  not 
yet  been  truly  stirred ;  a  creature  meant  rather  to  smile 
to  the  sunshine  than  to  moan  to  the  storm  winds. 

And  on  her  farm,  as  folks  called  Juanita's  place, 
that  September  saw  many  changes.  Near  the  original 
cabin  was  springing  up  a  new  structure,  larger  than 
any  other  house  in  that  neighborhood,  except  possibly 
the  strongholds  of  the  chiefs,  and  as  it  grew  and  began 
to  take  form  it  loaned  an  air  of  ordered  trimness  to  the 
countryside  about  it.  It  was  fashioned  in  such  style 
as  should  be  in  keeping  with  its  surroundings  and  not 
give  too  emphatic  a  note  of  alien  strangeness. 

Because  that  was  an  easier  form  of  building  and  the 
only  form  understood  by  these  workmen,  it  was  as 
square  as  a  block-house  erected  in  days  of  Indian  war- 
fare, and  it  was  as  solid.  In  the  words  of  one  of  its 
builders,  "  it  would  stand  thar  j  est  like  thet,  barrin' 
fire  an'  ther  wrath  of  God5  'twell  Kingdom  come." 
But  it  was  a  house  of  many  windows  and  if  its  doors 
and  shutters  were  as  heavy  as  if  they,  too,  had  been  built 
with  a  thought  of  standing  a  siege,  that  was  because  the 
frailer  woodwork  of  the  outer  world  could  not  be  had. 
But  the  logs  were  solidly  laid  and  their  squared  faces 


154  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

were  smooth  inside  and  out.  A  broad,  high  veranda 
went  around  the  house,  and  Juanita  could  look  at  the 
structure  which  was  growing  day  by  day  to  be  less  of  a 
skeleton,  and  see  in  her  mind's  eye  exactly  what  its 
finished  appearance  would  be.  She  would  picture  the 
whole  place,  as  the  future  was  to  know  it,  with  the  little 
hospital  perched  on  the  hill  slope,  and  dormitories  and 
workshops  lying  in  an  ordered  hamlet  about  a  trim 
campus.  Dawn,  to  whom  the  growing  of  such  unprec- 
edented splendor  was  a  world's  wonder,  shared  her  en- 
thusiasm, and  in  her  anticipation  was  a  sparkle  like 
wine.  She  used  to  walk  around  the  sharp  curve  of  the 
road  which  hid  the  place  until  you  were  almost  upon  it 
and  "  make-believe  "  that  she  was  a  stranger  who  had 
never  traveled  that  road  before.  She  would  pretend 
to  be  amazed  at  the  sight  of  a  trim  hillside  with  lines 
of  colorful  flowers,  rows  of  hollyhock  waving  a  wel- 
come, and  as  the  season  advanced,  brave  lines  of  nod- 
ding marigolds  and  zinnias  like  soldiers  of  peace  flaunt- 
ing banners  of  welcome. 

She  and  Juanita  would  stop  and  expatiate  on  the 
scene,  which  as  yet  had  existence  only  in  their  imagina- 
tions. 

"  Wall,  livin'  land  o'  Mercy ! "  Dawn  would  exclaim 
with  simulated  astonishment.  "  Whoever  seed  the  like 
of  thet  before  in  these  hyar  mountings!  I've  heered 
tell  of  flower  gyardens  down  in  the  settlemints  of  old 
Kaintuck,  but  I  nuver  'lowed  ter  see  one  hyarabouts." 
Then  she  would  point  to  where  there  were  to  be  but- 
tresses of  rough  stone  running  here  and  there  along  the 
slopes  green  with  transplanted  ferns.  These  abut- 
ments were  planned  to  give  to  tillers  of  the  mountain- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  155 

sides  an  object  lesson  in  the  preservative  value  of  ter- 
racing with  which  the  gardeners  of  Switzerland  and 
Madeira  make  fugitive  garden  spots  and  vineyards 
stand  steadfast. 

"An'  would  ye  just  take  a  peek  at  them  thar  rock 
fandangles,"  the  mountain  girl  would  go  on  with  a 
twinkle  in  her  blue  eyes,  mimicking  the  drawl  which  she 
herself  was  rapidly  outgrowing.  "  I  reckon  ther  feller 
thet  built  them  thar  things,  aims  ter  make  his  durned 
farm  stand  hitched.  Many's  ther  field  thet's  run  off, 
from  me,  in  a  tide.  Many's  ther  time  I've  hed  ter  prop 
up  a  hill  of  corn  with  a  bowlder  ter  keep  hit  from  a-sled- 
din'  plumb  down  inter  ther  valley." 

Juanita  wished  that  her  cabin  could  house  more  oc- 
cupants, for  the  plague  had  left  many  motherless  fami- 
lies and  had  there  been  accommodations,  many  chil- 
dren might  have  come  into  her  fold.  As  it  was  she  had 
several  besides  the  McNashes  as  her  nucleus  and  while 
the  weather  held  good  she  was  rushing  her  work  of  tim- 
ber-felling and  building  which  the  winter  would  halt. 
Young  Jesse  at  first  retained  his  sullenness  of  mien, 
standing  on  his  dignity  in  this  woman-ruled  place  and 
refusing  to  participate  in  any  work  which  he  regarded 
as  incompatible  with  his  man's  dignity. 

He  scowled  wi£h  infinite  contempt  over  their  plans 
for  what  he  called  the  "  weed  gyarden,"  but  as  the 
weeks  went  on  he,  too,  became  enthused  and  toiled 
sturdily  and  uncomplainingly.  Jeb,  on  his  visits,  was 
slow  of  censure  or  praise,  but  his  face  did  not  lighten 
and  the  sparkle  of  coming  autumn  found  no  reflection 
in  the  moody  eyes,  wherein  smoldered  a  growing  blood- 
lust.  The  girl  guessed  that  he  reported  progress  to 


156  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Bad  Anse  Havey,  and  though  she  had  never  invited  him 
and  had  lost  no  opportunity  to  affront  him,  she  began 
to  feel  indignant  at  the  clan  chief's  cool  ignoring  of 
her  work.  Heretofore  men  had  come  to  her  on  her 
own  terms.  Here  was  one  who  could  dismiss  her  from 
his  scheme  of  things  with  no  care  or  thought  beyond 
a  frank  contempt  and  her  woman's  latent  vanity  was 
piqued. 

•  •»•»••• 

One  day  in  early  October  young  Milt  McBriar  hap- 
pened upon  Dawn  and  Juanita  walking  in  the  woods. 

The  gallant  colors  and  the  smoky  mists  of  autumn 
wrapped  the  forests  and  brooded  in  the  sky.  An  elixir 
went  into  the  blood  with  each  deep-drawn  breath  and  set 
to  stirring  forgotten  or  hitherto  unawakened  emotions. 
Effervescence  tingled  in  the  air  and  glory  reigned  over 
the  woods,  where  every  tree  became  a  torch  and  every 
night  an  artist  painting  in  the  dark  from  a  palette  of 
increasing  gorgeousness. 

There  was  the  fulness  and  gayety  of  a  great  festival 
between  the  horizons,  which  seemed  to  communicate  it- 
self even  to  the  geese  as  they  waddled  pompously  up 
from  the  creek  to  banquet  at  leaky  corn-cribs.  On  the 
slopes  where  the  first  frost  had  brought  down  showers 
of  persimmons  and  walnuts  and  hickory  nuts  lay  spread, 
was  all  the  tapestried  wonder  of  a  carnival.  The 
sugar  trees  flamed  in  scarlet.  The  oaks  and  hickories 
and  poplars  were  garbed  in  russet  and  burgundy  and 
yellow.  Only  the  pines  did  not  go  mad  with  the 
festival  spirit,  but  remained  stoically  somber.  And  in 
this  heady  atmosphere  of  quickened  pulses,  the  Mc- 
Briar boy  halted  and  gazed  at  the  Havey  girl. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  157 

Juanita  saw  the  mountain  boy's  eyes  flash  with  an 
awakened  spirit.  She  saw  a  look  in  his  face  which  she 
was  woman  enough  to  interpret  even  before  he  himself 
dreamed  what  its  meaning  might  be.  The  silent  gaze 
of  the  youth  who  would  some  day  be  chief  over  the 
McBriars  followed  the  lissome  movements  of  the  girl 
whose  father  the  McBriars  had  done  to  death ;  followed 
them  mutely  and  steadfastly,  and  into  his  pupils  came 
something  softer  than  any  light  that  had  burned  there 
before;  softer  and  hungrier. 

Dawn  was  standing  with  her  head  up  and  her  lids 
half-closed,  looking  across  the  valley  to  the  Indian 
summer  haze  that  slept  in  smoky  purple  on  the  ridges. 
She  wore  a  dress  of  red  calico  and  she  had  thrust  in  her 
belt  a  few  crimson  leaves  from  a  gum  tree  and  a  few 
yellow  ones  from  a  poplar.  In  her  black  hair  were 
more  of  them  —  from  a  scarlet  sugar  tree  —  and  as 
she  felt  the  eyes  of  the  boy  on  her  face,  and  realized  how 
she  was  bedecked,  her  cheeks,  too,  kindled  into  a  carmine 
flush  so  that  she  stood  there  a  tremendously  vivid  little 
incarnation  of  barbaric  beauty.  Juanita  Holland  did 
not  marvel  at  the  fascinated,  almost  rapt  look  that 
came  into  young  Milt's  eyes,  and  Young  Milt,  too,  as 
he  stood  there  in  the  autumn  woods  was  himself  no 
mean  figure.  His  lean  body  was  quick  of  movement 
and  strong,  and  his  bronzed  face  bore  the  straight- 
looking  eyes  that  carried  an  assurance  of  fearless 
honesty.  Juanita  remembered  that  his  father's  eyes 
also  wore  that  seeming  and  that  behind  them  lay  a 
world  of  chicane  and  evil.  But  the  boy  had  at  least 
all  the  outward  guise  of  a  cleaner  and  better  replica 
of  his  sire.  He  had  been  away  to  Lexington  to  college 


158  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

and  was  going  back.  The  keen  intelligence  of  his  face 
was  marred  by  no  note  of  meanness,  and  now  as  he 
looked  at  the  girl  of  the  enemy,  his  shoulders  came  un- 
consciously back  with  something  of  the  pride  that  shows 
in  men  of  wild  blood,  when  they  feel  in  their  veins  the 
strain  of  chieftains. 

But  Dawn  after  her  first  blush  dropped  her  lids  a 
little  and  tilted  her  chin,  and  without  a  word  snubbed 
him  with  the  air  of  a  Havey  looking  down  on  a  Mc- 
Briar. 

Milt  met  that  gaze  with  a  steady  one  of  his  own  and 
banteringly  said,  "  Dawn,  kinder  'pears  like  ye  mout  V 
got  tangled  up  with  a  rainbow." 

Her  voice  was  cool  as  she  retorted,  "  I  reckon  that's 
better  then  gittin'  mixed  up  with  some  other  things." 

"  I  was  jest  a-thinkin'  es  I  looked  at  ye,"  went  on  the 
boy  gravely,  "  thet  hit's  better  than  gittin'  mixed  up 
with  any  other  thing." 

Dawn  turned  away  and  went  stalking  along  the  wood- 
land path  without  a  backward  glance  and  Milt  fol- 
lowed at  her  heels,  with  Juanita,  much  amused,  bring- 
ing up  the  rear.  Juanita  thought  that  these  two 
young  folk  made  a  splendid  pair,  specimens  of  the  best 
of  the  mountains,  as  yet  unbroken  by  heavy  harness. 
Then  as  the  younger  girl  passed  under  a  swinging  rope 
of  wild  grape  vine,  stooping  low,  a  tendril  caught  in 
her  hair  and  became  tangled  there. 

Without  a  word  young  Milt  bent  forward  and  was 
freeing  it,  tingling  through  all  his  pulses  as  his  fingers 
touched  the  heavy  black  mass,  but  as  soon  as  she  was 
free  the  girl  sprang  away  and  wheeled  with  her  eyes 
blazing. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  159 

"  How  dast  ye  tech  me  ?  "  she  demanded,  panting  with 
wrath.  "How  dast  ye?'* 

The  boy  laughed  easily.  "  I  dast  do  anything  I 
wants,"  he  told  her.  For  a  moment  they  stood  look- 
ing at  each  other,  then  the  girl  dropped  her  eyes,  but 
the  anger  had  died  out  of  them  and  Juanita  saw  that 
despite  her  condescending  air,  she  was  not  displeased. 

Juanita  of  course  knew  nothing  of  the  suspicion 
which  had  led  Jeb  into  the  laurel  on  that  summer  after- 
noon, but  even  without  that  information  when  young 
Milt  met  them,  more  often  than  could  be  attributed  to 
chance,  on  their  walks  and  fell  into  the  habit  of  strolling 
back  with  them,  strong  forebodings  began  to  trouble 
her. 

And  one  morning  these  forebodings  were  verified  in 
crisis,  for,  while  the  youthful  McBriar  lounged  near  the 
porch  of  Juanita's  cabin  talking  with  Dawn,  another 
shadow  fell  across  the  sunlight;  the  shadow  of  Jeb  Mc- 
Nash.  He  had  come  silently  and  it  was  only  as  young 
Milt,  whose  back  had  been  turned,  shifted  his  position 
that  the  two  boys  recognized  each  other. 

Juanita  saw  the  start  with  which  Jeb's  figure 
stiffened  and  grew  taut.  She  saw  his  hands  clench 
themselves  and  his  face  turn  as  white  as  chalk;  saw 
his  chest  rise  and  fall  under  heavy  breathing  that  hissed 
through  clenched  teeth,  and  her  own  heart  pounded 
with  wild  anxiety.  But  Milt  McB  mar's  face  showed 
nothing.  His  father's  mask-like  calmness  of  feature 
had  come  down  to  him,  and  as  he  read  the  meaning  of 
the  other  boy's  attitude,  he  merely  nodded  and  said 
casually,  "  Howdy,  Jeb." 

Jeb  did  not  answer.     He  could  not  answer.     He  was 


160  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

straining  and  punishing  every  nerve  fiber  cruelly,  simply 
in  standing  where  he  was  and  keeping  his  hands  at  his 
sides.  For  a  time  he  remained  stiff  and  white,  breath- 
ing spasmodically,  then  without  a  word  he  turned  and 
stalked  away. 

That  noon  a  horseman  brought  a  note  across  the 
ridge  and  as  Juanita  Holland  read  it  she  felt  that  all 
her  dreams  were  crumbling  and  that  the  soul  of  them 
was  paralyzed. 

It  was  a  brief  note  written  in  a  copy-book  hand. 

"  I'll  have  to  ask  you,"  it  ran,  "  to  send  the  McNash 
children  over  to  my  house.  Jeb  doesn't  want  them  to 
be  consorting  with  the  McBriars,  and  I  can't  blame 
him.  He  is  the  head  of  his  family. 

"  Respectfully, 

"  Anse  Havey." 


CHAPTER  XVH 

A  STRONGER  thing  to  Juanita  Holland  than  the 
personal  disappointment  which  had  driven  her 
to  this  work  was  now  her  eager,  fiery  interest  in 
the  undertaking  itself.  In  these  months  she  had  dis- 
abused herself  of  many  prejudices  that  had  at  first 
blinded  her.  There  remained  that  lingering  one 
against  the  man  with  whom  she  had  not  made  friends. 

The  thing  she  had  set  out  to  do  was  an  hundred- 
fold more  vital  now  than  it  had  been  when  it  stood  for 
carrying  out  a  dead  grandfather's  wish.  She  had  been 
with  these  people  in  childbirth  and  death,  in  sickness 
and  want ;  she  had  seen  summer  go  from  its  tender  be- 
ginnings to  a  vagabond  end  with  its  tattered  banners 
of  ripened  corn.  Autumn  had  blazed  and  flared  into 
high  carnival. 

Close  to  the  heart  of  this  woman  lay  a  worship  of 
the  chivalric,  not  in  its  forms  and  panoplies,  but  in  its 
essence  —  in  its  scorn  of  the  mean  and  untruthful ;  its 
passion  of  simple  service ;  in  its  consecration  to  fighting 
for  the  weak. 

All  those  deep  qualities  were  intimately  wound  up  and 
tangled  with  the  life  and  work  she  had  undertaken. 
The  laurel  had  clasped  its  root  tendrils  about  her  be- 
ing, and  to  fail  would  surely  break  her  heart. 

She  must  conquer,  she  told  herself,  and  unconsciously 
her  thought  even  fell  into  the  simple  tensity  of  the 


162  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

people  about  her  and  she  stood  murmuring  to  herself, 
"  Oh,  God,  I've  just  got  to  win  —  I've  just  got  to 
win!" 

But  as  young  Jeb  had  turned  on  his  heel  and  stalked 
away,  even  before  the  coming  of  the  note  she  knew 
what  would  happen,  and  what  would  happen  not  only 
in  this  instance,  but  in  others  like  it.  This  would  not 
be  just  losing  Dawn,  bad  as  that  was.  It  would  be 
paralysis  and  death  to  the  school;  it  would  mean  the 
losing  for  all  time  of  every  Havey  boy  and  girl. 

So  she  stood  there  and  afterward  said  quietly,  "  Milt, 
I  guess  you'd  better  go,"  and  Milt  had  gone  gravely 
and  unquestioningly,  but  with  that  in  his  eye  which 
did  not  argue  brightly  for  restoration  of  peace  be- 
tween his  house  and  that  of  his  enemy. 

When  the  two  girls  had  gone  together  into  the  cabin 
Dawn  stood  with  a  face  that  blanched  as  she  began  to 
realize  what  it  all  meant,  then  slowly  she  stiffened  and 
her  hands,  too,  clenched  and  her  eyes  kindled. 

For  a  while  neither  of  them  spoke.  Until  Jeb's 
appearance  young  Milt  had  simply  been  himself  to 
Dawn,  now  as  she  looked  back  it  was  as  if  she  reviewed 
the  situation  with  her  brother's  eyes.  She  had  been 
permitting  a  McBriar  to  walk  in  the  woods  with  her  and 
she  had  even  smiled  on  him.  Not  only  was  it  a  Mc- 
Briar, but  with  one  exception  the  most  responsible  and 
typical  of  all  the  McBriars.  Into  her  heart  crept 
something  of  deep  shame.  She  felt  like  a  nun  who  has 
been  recreant  to  all  her  vows  and  traditions.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  her  dead  father's  spirit  was  rebuking  her 
and  her  dead  mother  scorning  her.  She  would  not  let 
Milt  speak  to  her  again.  She  would  not  wipe  her  feet 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  163 

on  young  Milt  should  he  throw  himself  on  the  earth  be- 
fore her. 

But  deep  and  uncompromising  as  the  clan  loyalty 
was  in  her  blood,  another  loyalty  now  stood  above  it. 
She  was  a  Havey,  but  not  even  Haveys  should  tear  her 
away  from  Juanita  Holland,  the  woman  she  loved  and 
deified. 

She  came  across  to  the  chair  into  which  the  older 
girl  had  dropped  listlessly  and,  falling  to  her  knees, 
seized  both  Juanita's  hands.  She  seized  them  tightly 
and  fiercely  and  her  eyes  were  blazing  and  her  voice 
broke  from  her  lips  in  turgid  vehemence.  For  them 
both  the  cheery  note  died  out  of  the  din  of  hammer  and 
saw  and  the  loud  voices  of  the  "  house-raisers." 

The  triumph  departed  from  the  enspiriting  sight  of 
ox-teams  snaking  logs  down  the  mountain-side.  The 
whole  dream  picture  faded.  Like  some  mighty  walking 
delegate,  Anse  Havey  would  speak  the  word  and  that 
activity  would  become  useless.  He  would  call  a  strike 
and  those  buildings  would  stand  doomed  to  perpetual 
emptiness.  After  all,  Juanita  reflected,  she  was 
totally  helpless. 

"  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  leave  ye,"  cried  Dawn.  "  I 
hain't  a-goin'  ter  do  it."  No  word  had  been  spoken 
of  her  leaving,  but  in  this  life  they  both  knew  that  cer- 
tain things  bring  certain  results,  and  they  were  expect- 
ing a  note  from  Bad  Anse.  "  I  hope  not,  dear,"  mur- 
mured Juanita  without  conviction. 

Then  the  mountain  girl  sprang  up  and  became  trans- 
formed. With  her  rigid  figure  and  blazing  eyes  she 
seemed  a  torch  burning  with  all  the  p€nt-up  heritage 
of  her  past. 


164  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  I  tells  ye  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  leave  ye !  "  she  pro- 
tested, and  her  utterance  swelled  to  fiery  determination. 
*'  Es  fer  Milt  McBriar  I  wouldn't  spit  on  him.  ...  I 
hates  him.  I  hates  his  murderin'  breed.  ...  I  hates 
'em  like  — "  she  paused  a  moment  then  finished  tu- 
multuously  — "  like  all  hell.  I  reckon  I'm  es  good  a 
Havey  as  Jeb.  I  hain't  seen  Jeb  do  nothin'  yit." 

Again  she  paused,  panting  with  passionate  rage. 
Then  swept  on  while  Juanita  looked  at  her  sudden 
metamorphosis  into  a  Fury  and  shuddered. 

"  When  I  wasn't  nothin'  but  a  baby  I  fetched  victuals 
ter  my  kinfolks  a-hidin'  out  from  revenuers.  I  passed 
right  through  men  thet  war  a-trailin'  'em.  I've  done 
served  my  kinfolks  afore  an'  I'd  do  hit  ergin,  but  I 
reckon  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  let  'em  take  me  away  from 
ye." 

But  Juanita  was  thinking  through  her  daze  of  grief 
and  fear  for  the  future,  that  in  more  ways  than  one 
she  had  failed.  This  child  who  had  seemed  so  different 
from  the  blood-thirsty  people  about  her  was  after  all 
cut  to  the  same  ungoverned  pattern. 

She  was  as  wild  as  the  wildest  of  them.  At  the  first 
note  of  provocation  every  vestige  of  the  applied  civiliza- 
tion had  dropped  from  her  like  a  discarded  cloak.  And 
now  the  young  girl  was  standing  there  teaching  the 
older  girl  the  immutability  of  the  hills. 

"  Ye're  a-goin'  ter  have  trouble  es  long  es  ye  stays 
hyar,"  Dawn  said  vehemently.  "  Thar  hain't  nothin' 
but  trouble  hyarabouts.  I've  seed  it  since  I  was  born. 
Anse  Havey  went  down  below  ter  ther  settlemints  an' 
trouble  called  him  home.  Ye  seed  what  happened  the 
night  ye  come.  Ye  knows  what's  happened  since.  Hit 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  165 

won't  niver  end  twell  ther  last  McBriar's  done  been 
kilt.  .  .  .  But  ef  ye  stays  hyar  I  'lows  ter  stay  with 
ye." 

She  halted  in  her  tirade  and  Juanita's  voice  came 
very  low  with  a  question. 

"And  if  Anse  Havey  sends  for  you,  dear:  what 
then?" 

The  girl  stood  trembling  and  white  for  a  moment 
and  then  her  rage  turned  into  a  torrent  of  tears.  She 
flung  herself  down  on  her  knees  again  and  buried  her 
face  in  the  other  girl's  lap ;  her  defiance  all  converted 
to  pleading.  That  question  was  like  asking  a  sub- 
ject whether  he  would  defy  an  Emperor's  edict. 

"  Don't  let  'em  take  me,"  moaned  the  girl.  "  Don't 
let  'em.  Hit's  ther  first  time  I've  ever  been  happy. 
Don't  let  'em." 

Juanita  could  think  of  only  one  step  to  take,  so  she 
sent  Jerry  Everson  for  Brother  Talbott,  whom  she 
had  seen  riding  toward  the  shack  hamlet  in  the  valley. 

"  Thar  hain't  but  one  thing  thet  ye  kin  do,"  said 
Good  Anse  slowly  when  he  and  Juanita  sat  alone  over 
the  problem  with  the  note  of  Havey  command  lying 
between  them.  "  An'  I  hain't  noways  sartain  thet  hit'll 
come  ter  nothin'.  Ye've  got  ter  go  over  thar  an'  have 
speech  with  Anse  Havey." 

She  drew  back  with  a  start  of  distaste  and  repulsion. 
Yet  she  had  known  that  all  along.  She  knew  that  to 
let  the  children  who  had  come  to  her  go  back  to  the  old 
life  for  which  she  had  unfitted  them,  with  their  ambitions 
aroused  to  unsatisfied  hunger  would  kill  her.  More- 
over it  would  break  their  hearts.  It  would  be  the  end 
of  everything.  FOF  them  she  would  even  humble  her- 


166  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

self  before  Bad  Anse  Havey,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  Judith 
consented  more  reluctantly  to  go  to  the  tent  of  Holo- 
fernes  than  she  to  go  to  the  brick  house  against  which 
she  had  launched  so  many  anathemas. 

"  Ye  see,"  she  heard  the  missionary  saying,  "  thar's 
jest  one  way  Anse  kin  handle  Jeb  an'  nobody  else  kain't 
handle  him  at  all;  not  thet  I  blames  ther  boy  much. 
He  thinks  he's  right.  I  reckon  ef  ye  kin  persuade  Anse 
ter  reason  with  him  ye'll  hev  ter  promise  that  young 
Milt  hain't  a-goin'  ter  hang  round  hyar." 

"  I'd  promise  that,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  I'd  promise 
almost  anything.  I  can't  give  them  up  —  I  can't  — 
I  can't." 

"  Ef  Anse  didn't  pertect  little  Dawn  from  ther  Mc- 
Briars,  Jeb  would  ter  a  God's  sartainty  kill  young 
Milt,"  went  on  the  preacher,  and  the  girl  nodded  miser- 
ably. 

"  I  don't  'low  ter  blame  ye  none,"  he  said  slowly,  al- 
most apologetically,  "  but  I've  got  ter  say  hit.  Hit's 
a  pity  ye've  seen  fit  ter  say  so  many  bitter  things  ter 
Anse.  Mountain  folks  air  mighty  easy  hurt  in  their 
pride  an'  no  one  hain't  nuver  dared  ter  cross  him  afore." 

"  No,"  she  exclaimed  bitterly,  "  he  will  welcome  the 
chance  to  humiliate  and  to  refuse  me.  He  has  been 
waiting  for  this ;  to  see  me  come  to  him  a  suppliant  on 
bended  knee,  and  then  to  laugh  at  me  and  turn  me 
away."  She  paused  and  added  brokenly,  "  And  yet 
I've  got  to  go  to  him  in  surrender  and  pleading  —  to  be 
refused  —  but  I'll  go." 

"Listen,"  said  the  preacher,  and  his  words  carried 
that  soft  quality  of  pacification  which  she  had  once  or 
twice  heard  before.  "  Thar's  a-heap-worse  fellers  than 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  167 

Bad  Anse  Havey.  Ef  ye  could  jest  hev  seed  yore  way 
ter  treat  him  a  leetle  diff'rent  — " 

"How  could  I?"  demanded  Juanita  hotly.  "How 
could  I  be  friends  with  a  murderer  and  keep  my  self- 
respect?  " 

The  brown-faced  man  looked  up  at  her  and  spoke 
simply.  "  I've  done  kept  mine,"  he  said. 

The  girl  rose. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  ?  "  she  asked  a  little  weakly. 
*  I  don't  feel  quite  strong  enough  to  go  over  there 
alone.  While  they  are  humbling  me  I  would  like  to 
have  a  friend  at  hand.  I  think  it  would  help  a  little." 

"  I'm  ready  right  now,"  said  the  missionary  and  so 
with  the  man  who  had  guided  her  on  other  missions,  she 
set  out  to  make  what  terms  she  could  with  the  enemy 
she  had  so  stubbornly  defied. 

It  seemed  an  interminable  journey,  though  they  took 
the  short  cut  of  the  foot  trail  over  the  hills.  It  was  a 
brilliant  afternoon,  full  of  music  and  sparkle  and  color, 
but  for  her  the  life  had  gone  out  of  Nature's  pagean- 
try. 

Under  the  poplar,  where  she  had  so  often  stood  to 
look  down  defiantly  on  the  brick  house  far  below, 
Juanita  paused,  and  grew  a  little  faint.  She  put  out 
one  hand  and  steadied  herself  against  the  cool  bark  of 
its  giant  bole.  In  a  faint  self-contemptuous  voice 
she  quoted  once  more,  but  in  an  altered  and  shaken 
spirit. 

"  The  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees ; 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter  dull  and  gray;" 


168  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

The  house  that  had  come  down  to  Anse  Havey  had 
been  built  almost  a  century  before.  It  was  originally 
placed  in  a  tract  so  large  that  elsewhere  it  would  have 
been  a  domain,  a  tract  held  under  the  original  Virginia 
grant.  Since  those  days  much  of  it  had  been  parceled 
out  as  marriage  portions  to  younger  generations.  The 
first  Havey  had  been  a  gentleman,  whose  fathers  had 
been  associates  of  Lord  Baltimore,  and  who  had  fought 
with  Washington  for  independence.  It  had  taken  the 
stalwart  strain  several  generations  to  relapse  into  the 
ruck  of  semi-illiteracy. 

The  house  itself  was  a  relic  of  days  before  the  richer 
traditions  of  Virginia  had  faded.  It  had  been  put  there 
when  such  places  were  wilderness  outposts  of  the  cul- 
ture left  behind.  In  the  attic  still  stood  a  dust-cov- 
ered raw-hide  trunk  that  had  lumbered  west  with  the 
early  wagon  trains  of  pioneer  venturing,  and  in  that 
trunk  moldered  such  needless  things  as  bits  of  colonial 
silver  and  brocaded  petticoats  and  breeches  with  silver 
knee  buckles.  Then  gradually,  as  the  uprooted  tree 
falls  into  dry  rot,  the  gallant  and  scholarly  stock  had 
sunk  and  on  it  fed  the  slow  waste  of  decay;  just  as  the 
moth  and  the  mildew  fed  on  the  brocades  and  satins. 

The  bricks  for  these  walls  had  been  baked  in  a  home- 
made kiln,  and  ^the  walls  themselves  had  been  reared  like 
those  of  a  fortress.  There  was  a  porch  at  the  front 
and  two  floors,  but  the  narrow  windows  were  shuttered 
as  heavily  as  those  of  a  frontier  prison  and  when  its 
doors  were  barred  the  enemy  who  sought  to  enter  must 
knock  with  a  battering  ram,  and  sustain  a  welcome  from 
loop-holes. 

Cabins  that  had  once  housed  slaves,  barns,  a  smoke- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  169 

house,  an  ice-house  and  a  small  hamlet  of  dependent 
shacks,  clustered  about  a  clearing  which  had  been  put 
there  rather  to  avoid  surprise  than  to  give  space  for 
gardening.  The  Havey  of  two  generations  ago  had 
been  something  of  a  hermit  scholar  and  in  his  son  had 
lurked  a  diminishing  passion  for  books  and  an  increas- 
ing passion  for  leadership. 

The  feud  had  blazed  to  its  fiercest  heat  in  his  day, 
and  the  father  of  Bad  Anse  Havey  had  been  the  first 
Bad  Anse.  His  son  had  succeeded  to  the  title  as  a 
right  of  heritage,  and  had  been  trained  to  wear  it  like 
a  fighting  man.  Though  he  might  be  a  whelp  of  the 
wolf  breed,  the  boy  was  a  strong  whelp  and  one  in 
whom  slept  latent  possibilities  and  anomalous  qualities, 
for  in  him  broke  out  afresh  the  love  of  books.  It  might 
have  surprised  his  newspaper  biographers  to  know  how 
deeply  he  had  conned  the  few  volumes  on  the  rotting 
shelves  of  the  brick  house,  or  how  deeply  he  had 
thought  along  some  lines.  It  might  have  amazed  them 
had  they  heard  the  fire  and  resonance  with  which  he 
quoted  the  wise  counsel  of  the  foolish  Polonius.  "  Be- 
ware of  entering  a  quarrel,  but  being  in,  so  bear  thee 
that  the  opposed  may  beware  of  thee."  As  to  enter- 
ing a  quarrel  it  sufficed  his  logic  that  he  had  been  born 
into  it,  that  he  had  "  heired  "  his  hatreds. 

And  because  in  these  parts  his  father  had  held  al- 
most dictatorial  powers,  it  had  pleased  him  to  send  his 
son,  just  come  to  his  majority,  down  to  the  State  Capi- 
tal as  a  member  of  the  Legislature,  and  the  son  had 
gone  to  sit  for  a  while  among  law-makers. 


CHAPTER  XVIH 

IN  other  years  Bad  Anse  Havey  remembered  days 
in  that  house  when  the  voices  of  women  and  chil- 
dren had  been  raised  in  song  and  laughter.     Then 
the  family  had  gathered  in  the  long  winter  evenings 
before  the  roaring  back  logs,  and  spinning  wheel  and 
quilting  frame  had  not  yet  gone  to  the  cobwebs  of  the 
cock-loft.     But  that  was  long  ago. 

The  quarter  century  over  which  his  memory  traveled 
had  brought  changes  even  to  the  hills.  The  impalpable 
ghost  of  decay  moves  slowly  with  no  sound  save  the  oc- 
casional click  of  a  sagging  door  here  and  the  snap  of  a 
cord  there,  but  in  twenty-five  years  it  moves  —  and  an 
inbred  generation  comes  to  impaired  manhood.  Since 
Bad  Anse  himself  had  returned  from  Frankfort  his 
house  had  been  tenanted  only  by  men  and  an  atmos- 
phere of  grimness  hung  in  its  shadows.  A  half-dozen 
unkempt  and  loutish  kinsmen  dwelt  there  with  him, 
tilling  the  ground  and  ready  to  bear  arms.  More  than 
once  they  had  been  needed.  It  was  to  this  place  that 
Juanita  Holland  and  the  preacher  were  making  their 
way  on  that  October  afternoon.  Through  the  trees 
and  undergrowth  as  they  came  nearer  the  girl  could 
see  that  the  faded  grass  had  grown  ragged  and  weed- 
choked  in  the  yard,  and  that  the  fruit  trees  about  it 
were  gnarled  and  neglected,  and  the  bee-gums  leaned 

askew.     All  softening  touches  of  comfort  and  ease  had 

170 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  171 

gone  to  wrack,  and  the  impression  was  that  of  a  place 
where  war  sat  enthroned  above  the  ruins  of  thrift. 

At  a  point  where  they  should  go  down  to  the  road 
and  make  their  way  around  to  the  front  the  girl  halted 
and  stood  resting,  a  little  palpitant  with  the  prospect  of 
eating  humble  pie  and  more  than  a  little  frightened  at 
the  probability  of  failure.  The  missionary  shook  his 
head  as  he  rested  on  a  fallen  log  and  contemplated  her 
expression.  There  was  beauty  and  pride  and  gallantry 
in  her  pose ;  lissom  grace  to  ensnare  a  lover ;  charm  to 
captivate  an  observer,  but  little  of  that  humility  which 
befitted  one  who  came,  stripped  of  power,  to  sue  for 
terms.  Defiance  still  shone  too  rebelliously  from  her 
eyes. 

At  the  gate  they  encountered  a  solitary  figure  gaz- 
ing stolidly  out  to  the  front  and  when  their  coming 
roused  it  out  of  its  gloomy  revery  it  turned  and  pre- 
sented the  scowling  face  of  Jeb  McNash. 

"  Where  air  they  ?  "  he  demanded  wrathf ully,  wheel- 
ing upon  the  two  arrivals,  and  then  he  repeated 
violently,  "  By  God,  where  air  they  ?  Why  hain't  ye 
done  fetched  Dawn  an'  Jesse?  " 

"  Jeb,"  said  the  missionary  quietly,  "  we  done  come 
over  hyar  fust  ter  hev  speech  with  Anse  Havey. 
Whar's  he  at?  " 

"  I  reckon  he's  in  his  house,  but  ye  hain't  answered 
my  question.  I'm  ther  one  for  ye  ter  talk  ter  fust. 
Hit's  my  sister  ye've  done  been  sufferin'  ter  consort 
with  murderers,  an'  hit's  me  ye've  got  ter  reckon 
with." 

Brother  Talbott  only  nodded.  "  Son,"  he  gently  re- 
assured, "  we  aims  ter  talk  with  you,  too,  but  I  reckon 


172  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

ye  hain't  got  no  call  ter  hinder  us  from  havin'  speech 
with  Anse  fust." 

For  a  moment  Jeb  stood  dubious,  then  he  jerked  his 
head  toward  the  house.  "  Go  on  in  thar,  ef  ye  sees 
fit.  I  hain't  got  no  license  ter  stop  ye,"  he  said  curtly, 
"but  I  don't  aim  ter  let  ye  leave  'thout  seem'  me, 
too." 

Several  shaggy  retainers  were  lounging  on  the  front 
porch,  but  as  Good  Anse  Talbott  and  Juanita  turned 
in  at  the  gate,  these  henchmen  disappeared  inside. 
They  would  all  be  there  to  witness  her  humbling, 
thought  the  girl.  It  would  please  him  to  receive  her 
with  his  jackal  pack  yelping  their  sycophant  derision 
about  him.  Then  she  saw  another  figure  emerge  from 
the  dark  door  to  stand  at  the  threshold  and  the  flush  in 
her  cheeks  grew  deeper.  Bad  Anse  Havey  stood  and 
waited  and  when  they  reached  the  steps  of  the  porch 
he  came  slowly  forward  and  said  gravely,  "  Come  in- 
side." He  led  the  way  and  they  followed  in  silence. 

Juanita  found  herself  in  the  largest  room  she  had 
yet  seen  in  the  mountains ;  a  room  which  was  dark  at 
its  corners  despite  a  shaft  of  sun  that  slanted  through 
a  window,  falling  on  a  heavy  table  in  a  single  band  of 
light.  On  the  table  lay  a  litter  of  pipes,  loose  tobacco, 
cartridges  and  several  books.  Down  the  stripe  of  sun- 
light the  dust  motes  floated  in  pulverized  gold  and  the 
radiance  fell  upon  a  volume  which  lay  open,  throwing 
it  into  relief,  so  that  as  the  girl  stood  uncertainly  near 
the  table  she  read  at  the  top  of  a  page  the  caption, 
"  Plutarch's  Lives." 

But  she  caught  her  breath  in  relief  for  the  retainers 
had  disappeared. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  178 

Her  first  impression  was  that  of  a  place  massively 
and  crudely  timbered,  where  even  the  sun  attacked  the 
murk  feebly.  She  had  always  thought  of  this  house 
as  the  castle  of  the  enemy  and  now  that  she  had  entered 
it  the  impression  seemed  rather  strengthened  than  les- 
sened, but  it  was  a  mediaeval  castle,  crude  and  smoke- 
stained.  It  was  the  home  of  intrenched  darkness. 

Many  of  the  details  of  the  room  bore  the  atmosphere 
of  other  days.  The  stag  horns  over  the  mantle  shelf 
were  trophies  of  long  ago,  and  the  long-barreled  per- 
cussion-cap gun  which  hung  across  their  prongs  with 
its  powder-horn  and  shot-pouch  belonged  to  a  past 
eja.  The  aged  hound  that  rose  stiffly  from  the  floor  to 
growl  and  lie  down  again  with  much  awkward  circling 
looked  as  though  he  had  been  dreaming  of  trails 
through  other  decades. 

Bad  Anse  Havey  stood  just  at  the  edge  of  the  sun 
shaft,  with  one  side  of  his  face  lighted  and  the  other 
dark. 

But,  if  to  the  girl  the  whole  picture  was  one  of  somber 
composition  and  color,  it  presented  a  different  aspect 
to  Bad  Anse  himself,  as  the  young  mountaineer  stood 
facing  the  door.  Juanita  Holland  was  also  at  the 
edge  of  the  sun  shaft  and  the  golden  motes  danced 
around  the  escaping  curls  of  her  brown  hair  and  seemed 
to  caress  the  delicate  color  of  her  flushed  cheeks,  kiss- 
ing her  lips  into  carmine,  and  intensifying  the  violet  of 
her  eyes.  Her  slender  figure  stood  very  straight  in 
the  blue  gingham  gown,  and  her  sunbonnet  had  fallen 
back  and  hung  by  its  loosely  knotted  strings. 

And  at  her  side  stood  the  bent  figure  of  the  mission- 
ary, neutral  and  drab  as  though  painted  into  the  pic- 


174  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

ture  with  a  few  strong  strokes  of  a  brush  that  had  been 
dipped  in  only  one  color  and  that  color  dust  brown. 
When  he  spoke  his  voice,  by  some  fusing  of  elements, 
seemed  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of  him:  colorless. 

"  We've  done  come  ter  hev  speech  with  ye,  Anse," 
he  began.  "  I  reckon  ye  know  what  hit's  erbout." 

The  Havey  leader  only  nodded  and  his  steady  eyes 
and  straight  mouth  line  did  not  alter  their  sternness 
of  expression. 

He  saw  the  stifled  little  gasp  with  which  the  girl  read 
the  ultimatum  of  his  set  face  and  the  sudden  mist  of 
tears  which  in  spite  of  herself  blurred  her  eyes.  He 
pushed  forward  a  chair  and  gravely  inquired: 
"  Hadn't  ye  better  set  down,  ma'am?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  raised  one  hand,  which  trem- 
bled a  little,  to  brush  the  hair  out  of  her  eyes. 

Palpably  she  was  trying  to  speak,  and  could  not  for 
the  moment  command  her  voice.  But  at  last  she  got 
herself  under  command  and  her  words  came  slowly  and 
carefully. 

"  Mr.  Havey,  I  have  very  little  reason  to  expect 
consideration  from  you.  Even  now  if  it  were  a  ques- 
tion of  pleading  for  myself  I  would  die  first,  but  it 
isn't  that."  She  paused  and  shook  her  head.  "  You 
told  me  that  I  must  fail  unless  I  came  to  you.  .  .  . 
Well,  I've  come  —  I've  come  to  humiliate  myself.  I 
guess  I've  come  to  surrender." 

His  face  did  not  change  and  he  did  not  answer.  Evi- 
dently, thought  the  girl  bitterly,  she  had  not  suffi- 
ciently abased  herself.  After  a  moment  she  went  on 
in  a  very  tired,  yet  a  very  eager  voice. 

"  You  are  a  man  of  action,  Mr.  Havey.     I  make  my 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  175 

appeal  to  your  manhood.  I  suppose  you've  never  had 
a  dream  that  has  come  to  mean  anything  to  you  .  .  . 
but  that's  the  sort  of  dream  I've  had.  That  little  girl, 
Dawn,  wants  a  chance.  Her  little  brother  wants  a 
chance.  I've  humbled  myself  to  come  and  plead  for 
them.  If  you  take  them  away  from  me  now  you  will 
smash  my  school.  I  don't  underestimate  your  power 
now.  Children  are  just  beginning  to  come  to  me  and 
if  you  order  these  to  leave  the  others  will  leave,  too, 
and  they  won't  come  back.  It  will  kill  my  school.  If 
that's  your  purpose  I  guess  it's  no  use  even  to  plead. 
I  know  you  can  do  it  —  and  yet  you  told  me  you  weren't 
making  war  on  me." 

"  I  reckon,"  interrupted  Brother  Talbott  slowly, 
"  ye  needn't  have  no  fear  of  that,  ma'am.  Anse 
wouldn't  do  thet." 

"  But  if  you  aren't  doing  that,"  went  on  Juanita, 
"  I  want  to  make  my  plea  just  for  the  sakes  of  these 
children  of  your  own  people.  I'm  ready  to  accept  your 
terms.  .  .  .  I'm  ready  to  abase  and  humble  my  own 
pride,  only  for  God's  sake  give  them  a  chance  to  grow 
clean  and  straight  and  break  the  shackles  of  illiteracy 
and  savagery." 

She  waited  for  the  man  to  speak,  but  he  neither  spoke 
nor  changed  expression,  so  with  an  effort  she  went  on, 
unconsciously  bending  a  little  forward  in  her  eager- 
ness. 

"  If  you  could  see  the  way  Dawn  has  unfolded  like 
a  flower,  the  thirsty  intelligence  with  which  she  has 
drunk  up  what  I  have  taught  her ;  the  way  it  has  opened 
new  worlds  to  her,  I  don't  think  you  could  be  willing 
to  plunge  her  back  into  drudgery  and  ignorance.  She 


176  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

13  a  woman,  or  soon  will  be,  Mr.  Havey.  You  don't  need 
women  in  your  feuds." 

Again  came  the  cautioning  voice  of  the  preacher  in 
his  effort  to  keep  her  away  from  antagonizing  lines. 

"  They  hain't  been  called  away  fer  HO  reason  like 
thet,  ma'am."  But  Juanita  continued,  ignoring  the 
warning. 

"  The  other  boy  is  too  young  for  you  to  use  yet. 
Let  him  at  least  choose  for  himself.  Let  him  reach  the 
age  when  he  shall  have  enough  knowledge  of  both  sides 
to  take  his  own  course  fairly.  I'm  not  asking  odds. 
You  have  Jeb  and  he  wears  your  trademark  in  his  face. 
The  bitterness  that  lurks  there  shows  that  he  is  wholly 
your  vassal;  yours  and  the  feud's.  Doesn't  that 
satisfy  you?  .Won't  you  let  the  others  stay  with  me?  " 

She  broke  off  and  her  voice  carried  something  like  a 
gasp.  Anse  Havey's  face  stiffened. 

Even  now  he  did  not  speak  to  her,  but  turned  toward 
the  missionary. 

"  Brother  Talbott,"  he  said  slowly,  "  would  ye  mind 
waitin'  out  there  on  the  porch  a  little  spell?  I'd  like 
to  talk  with  this  lady  by  myself." 

As  the  missionary  turned  with  his  heavy  tread  it 
seemed  to  the  girl  that  her  last  ally  was  leaving  her 
and  that  she  was  being  abandoned  to  the  quiet  and  cruel 
will  of  her  stronger  enemy.  She  wheeled  and  clutched 
at  the  frayed,  drab  cloth  of  the  preacher's  coat-sleeve. 

"  No !  No ! "  she  exclaimed  nervously.  "  Don't 
leave  me.  Let  me  have  one  friend." 

The  brown  man  took  both  her  hands  in  his  and  looked 
reassuringly  into  her  eyes. 

"  Ef  I  thought  thet  thar  was  any  danger  of  ye  havin' 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  177 

ter  listen  at  anything  ye  wouldn't  want  ter  hear,  little 
gal,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  reckon  nuther  Anse  Havey 
ner  all  his  people  could  make  me  leave  this  room.  But 
hit's  all  right.  I  knows  Anse  Havey  an'  hit's  better 
thet  jest  ther  two  of  ye  talks  this  thing  over."  Then 
as  she  dropped  her  hands  at  her  sides,  bitterly  ashamed 
of  her  moment  of  weakness,  he  went  out  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him.  When  he  was  gone  there  was  a  short 
silence  which  Havey  finally  broke  with  a  question. 

"  Why  didn't  ye  say  all  these  things  to  Jeb  ?  I  sent 
the  letter  on  his  say-so." 

"  But  you  sent  it  —  and  all  the  Havey  power  is  in 
your  hands.  Jeb  wouldn't  understand  such  a  plea.  I 
come  to  the  fountain  head.  My  school  is  not  a  Havey 
school  nor  a  McBriar  school.  It  is  meant  to  open  its 
doors  to  both  sides  of  the  ridge,  regardless  of  factions." 

"Did  young  Milt  come  there  ter  git  eddication?  I 
thought  he  went  to  college  down  below."  The  ques- 
tion carried  an  undernote  of  irony. 

Juanita  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  He  came  there  as  any  other 
passer-by  might  have  come  and  he  hasn't  come  often. 
Let  me  keep  the  children  and  he  sha'n't  come  again." 

For  a  time  he  stood  there,  regarding  her  with  a  steady 
and  piercing  gaze,  while  his  brows  drew  together  in  a 
frown  rather  of  deep  thoughtfulness  than  of  displeas- 
ure. She  sank  into  a  chair  and  her  eyes  turned  from 
his  disconcerting  gaze  and  wandered  about  the  room. 

She  had  been  in  many  mountain  houses  now  and  had 
become  accustomed  to  the  half  light  within  their  walls. 
She  knew  that  these  interiors  were  at  first  vague  and 
grew  in  detail  as  the  eyes  fitted  themselves,  this  thing 


178  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

and  that  stealing  slowly  and,  as  it  seemed,  covertly,  out 
of  the  shadows.  Now  her  eyes  fell  upon  something  that 
seemed  strangely  out  of  place  here  and  her  gaze  rested 
on  it  with  a  strange  fascination. 

It  was  an  ancient  portrait  in  a  broken  frame. 
Through  its  darkened  and  cracked  paint  there  stood 
out  the  figure  and  face  of  a  man  of  magnificent  bearing, 
dressed  in  the  blue  and  buff  uniform  of  a  Continental 
officer.  There  was  nobility  of  brow  and  heroic  reso- 
luteness of  eye,  but  around  the  lips  lurked  the  gentle 
spirit  of  the  chivalrous  gentleman.  Whoever  had 
posed  for  that  picture  might  have  been  a  worthy  type 
of  the  men  who  built  the  republic,  and  the  hand  that 
rested  on  the  sword  hilt  was  the  slender  hand  of  an 
aristocrat. 

Her  eyes  traveled  back  to  the  other  man,  the  feud 
leader  of  the  mountains,  and  it  was  as  if  she  were  see- 
ing new  things  in  his  face,  too.  Its  features  were  cast 
in  the  same  mold  as  those  that  looked  out  from  the 
frame.  There  was  the  same  brow  and  chin  and  car- 
riage of  the  head;  but  the  mouth  was  more  set  and 
stern.  The  gentle  pride  had  turned  to  arrogance. 
Still,  thought  the  girl,  the  same  blood  must  flow  in  the 
veins  of  Bad  Anse  Havey  as  had  flowed  in  those  of  the 
gentleman  whose  likeness  the  artist  had  set  on  canvas. 
He  was  after  all  only  changed  by  the  generations  that 
had  fought  a  bitterer  battle  for  life.  Could  she  ap- 
peal to  the  latent  chivalry  that  must  sleep  somewhere  in 
his  heart? 

Good  God!  thought  Juanita  Holland,  suppose  this 
man's  blood  had  been  going  up  instead  of  down  from 
that  start.  Suppose  that  instead  of  relapse  his  lot  had 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  179 

been  to  march  with  the  vanguard !  What  a  splendid 
creature  he  might  have  been! 

So  fascinatedly  did  the  canvas  hold  her  attention 
that  she  heard  his  words  as  though  coming  from  some- 
where outside. 

"  I  asked  Brother  Talbott  to  go  out.  .  .  ."  he  was 
saying,  "  because  I  didn't  hardly  want  to  hurt  your 
feelin's  by  say  in'  before  him  that  your  school  can't 
last.  You're  goin'  about  it  all  the  wrong  way,  an' 
it's  worse  to  go  about  a  good  thing  the  wrong  way  than 
to  go  about  a  bad  thing  the  right  way.  I  told  ye  once 
that  ye  couldn't  change  the  hills,  an'  that  ye'd  change 
first  yourself.  I  say  that  again.  Ye  can't  take  fire 
out  of  blood  with  books.  But  if  ye've  done  persuaded 
Brother  Anse  that  you're  doin'  good,  I  didn't  want  him 
to  hear  me  belittle  ye." 

The  girl  did  not  answer  and  the  man  followed  her 
eyes  to  the  portrait. 

"  Ye  ain't  hearkenin'  to  nothin'  I  says,"  he  told  her. 
"  Shall  I  begin  over  an'  say  it  again  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  stammered,  "  I  heard  you  —  only  that  pic- 
ture is  rather  wonderful.  I  was  looking  at  it." 

He  laughed  shortly. 

"  That's  the  Revolutionary  Havey,"  he  enlightened. 
"  I  reckon  we've  run  right  smart  to  seed  since  his  time. 
That  old  man  died  in  his  bed  with  his  family  round  him. 
I  reckon  he  didn't  hardly  have  an  enemy  in  the  world. 
His  name  was  Anse,  too,  but  it  wasn't  Bad  Anse.  It  was 
after  that  that  the  Haveys  quit  dyin'  peaceful.  There 
ain't  been  many  lately  that's  done  it.  His  grandson 
started  the  feud  an'  he  passed  it  down  to  the  rest  of  us. 
We  grows  to  manhood  an'  gets  our  legacy  of  war. 


180  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

That's  the  thing  ye  aims  to  change  in  a  few  weeks.  It 
seems  to  me  ye've  bit  off  more  than  ye  can  chew." 

Anse  Havey  went  to  the  window  where  he  drank 
deeply  of  the  spiced  air.  Then  he  began  to  speak  and 
this  time  it  was  in  a  voice  the  girl  had  never  before 
heard,  a  voice  that  held  the  fire  of  the  natural  orator 
and  that  was  colorful  with  emotion. 

"  The  first  time  ye  saw  me,  ye  made  up  your  mind 
what  character  of  man  I  was.  Ye  made  it  up  from 
hearsay  evidence,  and  ye  ain't  never  give  me  no  chance 
to  show  ye  whether  ye  was  right  or  wrong.  Ye  say 
I've  never  dreamed  a  dream.  Good  God,  ma'am,  I've 
never  had  no  true  companionship  except  my  dreams. 
When  I  was  a  little  barefoot  shaver  I  used  ter  sit  there 
by  that  chimley  an'  dream  dreams  an'  one  of  'em's  the 
biggest  thing  in  my  life  to-day.  There  were  men 
around  Frankfort  when  I  was  in  the  Legislature  that 
'lowed  I  might  go  to  Congress  if  I  wanted  to.  I  didn't 
try.  My  dream  meant  more  to  me  than  Congress  — 
an'  my  dream  was  my  own  people:  to  stay  here  and 
help  'em." 

He  stepped  over  to  the  table  and,  with  a  swift  and 
passionate  gesture,  caught  up  two  books.  "  These  are 
my  best  friends,"  he  said  and  she  read  on  the  covers, 
"  Plutarch's  Lives,"  and  "  Tragedies  of  William 
Shakespeare."  The  girl  looked  up  with  amazement  in 
her  eyes,  but  she  met  in  his  own  pupils  a  fire  and  eager- 
ness which  silenced  her.  She  could  not  tell  whether 
she  was  being  wrought  upon  by  the  strange  fire  that 
dwelt  in  his  eyes  or  the  colorfulness  of  his  voice,  or  the 
influence  of  something  beyond  himself,  as  though  the 
ripe  old  portrait  were  talking.  But  as  she  listened 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  181 

and  looked  at  the  magnificent  physique  of  his  wedge- 
like  torso,  tapering  from  broad  shoulders  to  slender 
waist,  she  was  conscious  only  of  the  compelling  mas- 
culine that  seemed  to  vibrate  about  him. 

Here  was  a  man  with  all  the  primal  vigor  of  man- 
hood. Were  he  living  in  days  when  women  sought 
strong  mates,  Anse  Havey  would  have  had  his  choice 
of  wives.  She  thought  of  the  gentleman  whom  she  had 
almost  married  and  who  lacked  all  this.  Anse  Havey 
was  an  outlaw  and  at  home  would  seem  a  crude  bar- 
barian, but  he  was  the  sort  of  barbarian  whose  brain 
and  body  could  lay  a  spell  on  those  about  him.  A  wild 
thrill  of  admiration  tingled  through  her  being,  not  such 
as  any  other  man  had  ever  caused,  but  such  as  she  had 
felt  when  she  watched  the  elemental  play  of  lightning 
and  thunder  and  wind  along  the  mountain  tops. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
"TT'S  only  lonesome  people,"  Anse  Havey  went  on, 


I 


up  there  on  the  ridge  with  Julius  Caesar  and  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  an'  it  seemed  to  me  like  I  could  see 
'em,  as  plain  as  I  see  you  now.  I  could  see  the  sun 
shinin'  on  the  eagles  of  the  legions  an'  the  solid  shields 
of  the  phalanx.  I'm  rich  enough,  I  reckon,  to  live 
amongst  other  men  that  read  books,  too,  but  a  dream 
keeps  me  spendin'  my  days  here.  The  dream  is  that 
some  day  these-here  mountains  shall  come  into  their 
own.  These  people  have  got  it  in  'em  ter  be  a  great 
people,  an'  I've  staid  on  here  because  I  aimed  to  try  an' 
help  'em." 

"  But,"  she  faintly  expostulated,  "  you  seem  to  stand 
for  the  very  things  that  hold  them  back.  You  speak 
almost  reverently  of  their  killing  instinct  and  you  op- 
pose schools." 

The  man  shook  his  head  gravely  and  continued,  "  I'm 
a  feudist  because  my  people  are  feudists  an'  because  I 
can  lead  'em  only  so  long  as  I'm  a  fightin*  Havey. 
God  knows  if  I  could  wipe  out  this  blood-spillin'  I'd 
gladly  go  out  an'  offer  myself  as  a  sacrifice  to  bring  it 
about.  You  call  me  an'  outlaw  —  well,  I've  done  made 
laws  an'  I've  done  broke  them  an'  I've  seen  just  about 
as  much  crookedness  an'  lawlessness  at  one  end  of  the 
game  as  at  the  other." 

182 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  183 

"  But  schools  ?  "  inquired  Juanita.  "  Why  wouldn't 
they  help  your  dream  toward  fulfilment  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  against  no  school  that  can  begin  at  the  right 
end.  I'm  against  every  school  that  can  only  onsettle 
an'  teach  dissatisfaction  with  humble  livin'  where  folks 
has  got  to  live  humble." 

He  paused  and  paced  the  room.  This  man  was  no 
longer  the  man  who  had  seemed  the  immovable  stoic. 
His  eyes  were  far  away,  looking  beyond  the  horizons, 
into  the  future. 

"  It's  took  your  people  two  centuries  to  get  where 
they're  standin5  to-day,"  he  broke  out  abruptly,  "  an' 
fer  them  two  hundred  years  we've  been  standin'  still  or 
goin'  back.  Now  ye  come  down  here  an'  seeks  to  jerk 
my  people  up  to  where  ye  stands  in  the  blinkin'  of  an 
eye.  Ye  comes  lookin'  down  on  'em  an'  pityin'  'em 
because  they  won't  eat  outen  your  hand.  They'd  rather 
be  eagles,  than  song-birds  in  a  cage,  even  if  eagles  are 
wild  an'  lawless.  Ye  comes  here  an'  straightway  tells 
'em  that  their  leaders  are  infamous.  Do  ye  offer  'em 
better  leaders?  Ye  refuses  the  aid  of  men  that  know 
'em  —  men  of  their  blood  —  an'  go  your  own  ignorant 
way.  Do  ye  see  any  reason  why  I  should  countenance 
ye?  Don't  ye  see  ye're  just  a-scatterin'  my  sheep  be- 
fore they  knows  how  to  herd  themselves  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  girl  very  slowly  and  humbly, 
"  that  I've  been  a  fool." 

"  Ye  says  the  boy,  Jeb,  wear's  my  trademark  in  the 
hate  that's  on  his  face,"  continued  Anse  Havey  passion- 
ately. "  He's  been  here  with  me,  consortin'  with  them 
fellers  in  Plutarch  an'  Shakespeare.  If  I  can  curb 
him  an'  keep  him  out  of  mischief  he's  goin'  down  to 


184  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Frankfort  some  day  an*  learn  his  lessons  in  the  Legisla- 
ture. He  ain't  goin'  to  no  college  because  I  aims  to  fit 
him  for  his  work  right  here.  I  seek  to  have  fellers  like 
him  guide  these  folks  forward.  I  don't  aim  to  have  them 
civilized  by  bein'  wiped  out  an'  trod  to  death." 

He  paused  while  Juanita  Holland  repeated  helplessly 
and  half  aloud,  "  I've  been  a  fool ! " 

"  I  reckon  ye  don't  know  that  young  Jeb  McNash 
thinks  little  Milt  kilt  Fletch,  an'  that  one  day  he  laid 
out  in  the  la'rel  to  kill  little  Milt.  Ye  don't  know  that 
the  only  reason  he  stayed  his  hand  was  that  I'd  got  his 
promise  ter  bide  his  time.  But  I  reckon  ye  do  know 
that  if  Milt  was  killed  by  a  Havey  all  that's  transpired 
in  ten  years  wouldn't  make  a  patch  on  the  hell-raisin' 
that'd  go  on  hereabouts  in  a  week.  Do  ye  think  it's 
strange  thet  Jeb  don't  want  his  sister  consortin'  with 
the  boy  that  he  thinks  murdered  his  father?  " 

Juanita  rose  from  her  chair,  feeling  like  a  pert  and 
cocksure  interloper  who  had  been  disdainfully  looking 
down  on  one  with  a  vision  immeasurably  wider  and  surer 
than  her  own.  At  last  she  found  herself  asking,  "  But 
surely  young  Milt  didn't  kill  Fletch.  Surely  you  don't 
believe  that?  " 

"  No,  I  know  he  didn't,  but  there's  just  one  way  I 
can  persuade  young  Jeb  to  believe  it  —  an'  that's  to 
tell  him  who  did." 

His  eyes  met  hers  and  for  a  moment  lighted  with 
irony.  "  If  I  did  that  I  reckon  Jeb  would  be  willin' 
to  let  ye  keep  Dawn  an'  Jesse  —  an'  of  course  he'd  kill 
the  other  man.  Do  ye  want  me  to  do  it  ?  Just  say  the 
word,  ma'am,  an*  I'll  call  him  in.  It  may  not  cost  but 
one  life  ter  let  ye  have  your  way.  Life's  right  cheap 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  185 

hereabouts.  One  or  two  more  oughtn't  hardly  to  stand 
between  a  lady  an'  her  sacred  mission."  He  moved  to 
the  closed  door  and  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 

"  No,  stop !  "  she  almost  screamed.  "  It  would  mean 
murder.  Merciful  God,  it's  so  hard  to  decide  some 
things !  "  Anse  Havey  turned  back  to  the  room.  "  I 
just  thought  I'd  let  ye  see  that  for  yourself,"  he  said 
quietly ;  "  ye  ain't  hardly  been  able  ter  see  why  it's 
hard  for  us  people  to  decide  'em." 

Suddenly  a  new  thought  struck  her  and  it  brought 
from  her  a  sudden  question.  "  But  you  know  who  the 
murderer  is  and  you  have  spared  him?  " 

The  man  laughed.  "  Don't  fret  yourself,  ma'am. 
The  man  that  killed  Fletch  has  left  the  mountains  an' 
right  now  he's  out  of  reach.  But  he'll  be  back  some 
day  an'  when  he  comes  I  reckon  the  first  news  ye'll  hear 
of  him  will  be  that  he's  dead."  Once  more  it  was  the 
implacable  avenger  who  spoke  by  his  gospel  of  a  life 
for  a  life.  The  girl  could  only  murmur  in  perplexity, 
"  Yet  you  have  kept  Jeb  in  ignorance.  I  don't  under- 
stand. It  all  seems  so  complicated." 

"  I've  got  other  plans  for  Jeb,"  said  Bad  Anse 
Havey.  "  I  don't  'low  to  let  him  be  a  feud  killer. 
There's  others  that  can  attend  to  that."  He  flung  the 
door  open  and  called  Jeb ;  and  a  moment  later  the  boy, 
black  of  countenance,  came  in  and  stood  glaring  about 
with  the  sullen  defiance  of  a  young  bull  just  turned  into 
the  ring  where  he  is  to  face  the  matador.  "  Jeb,"  sug- 
gested the  chief  gravely,  "  I  reckon  if  Dawn  don't  see 
young  Milt  again  ye  ain't  goin'  to  object  to  her  havin' 
an  education,  are  ye?" 

The  boy  stiffened  and  his  reply  was  surly. 


186  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  I  don't  'low  ter  hev  my  folks  a-consortin'  with  no 
McBriars." 

Anse  Havey  spoke  again  very  quietly,  "  Milt  didn't 
know  no  more  about  that  killin'  than  I  did,  Jeb." 

"  How  does  ye  know  thet? "  The  question  burst 
out  fiercely  and  swiftly.  The  boy  bent  forward  with 
his  eyes  eagerly  burning  above  his  high  cheek-bones  and 
his  mouth  stiff  in  a  snarl  of  suspense.  "  How  does  ye 
know?  " 

"  Because  I  know  who  did." 

"  Tell  me  his  name !  "  The  shrill  demand  was  almost 
a  shriek.  Again  Jeb's  face  had  become  ashen  and  his 
muscles  were  twitching.  Anse  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der, but  the  boy  jerked  away  and  again  confronted  his 
elder  while  his  voice  broke  from  his  lips  in  an  excess  of 
passion.  "  Tell  me  his  name.  By  God,  he  b'longs  ter 
me." 

"  No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  tell  ye  his  name  just  yet,  Jeb," 
Anse  calmly  announced.  "  He  ain't  in  these  parts  now. 
He's  left  the  mountains  an'  it  wouldn't  do  ye  much  good 
to  know  his  name  —  yet.  Two  days  after  he  comes 
back  I'll  tell  ye  all  ye  wants  to  know  an'  I  won't  try 
ter  hinder  ye,  but  ye  must  let  the  children  stay  over 
there  at  the  school.  Dawn's  heart's  set  on  it,  an'  it 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  break  her  heart." 

The  boy  stood  trembling  in  wrath  and  indecision. 
Finally  his  voice  came  dubiously.  "  Ye  done  give  me 
yore  hand  once  before  thet  es  soon  as  ye  knowed  ye'd 
tell  me  —  an'  ye  lied  ter  me." 

Anse  Havey  shook  his  head  with  unruffled  patience. 

"  No,  I  didn't  lie  to  ye,  son.  I  wasn't  sure  till  after 
he  left.  I  ain't  never  lied  to  no  man." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  187 

A  long  silence  fell  on  the  room.  Through  the  open 
window  came  the  silvery  call  of  a  quail  in  some  distant 
thicket.  Jeb  was  remembering  the  tried  friendship  and 
unquestioned  loyalty  of  this  chief  of  clan,  and  the  com- 
radeship of  the  books,  and  the  debts  he  owed  to  Anse 
Havey.  After  a  while  he  raised  his  head  and  nodded 
in  his  compact.  "  I'll  give  ye  my  hand,"  he  said,  "  an' 
I  asks  yore  pardon  fer  callin'  ye  a  liar.  I  wouldn't  suf- 
fer no  other  man  ter  do  hit  in  my  hearin'." 

When  he  left  the  room  the  girl  rose  from  her  chair. 

"  There  is  no  way  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Havey,"  she  said 
with  a  touch  of  diffidence.  "  I  don't  believe  that  two 
wrongs  ever  yet  made  a  right.  I  don't  believe  that  you 
can  win  out  to  law  by  lawlessness.  But  I  do  believe 
you  are  sincere  and  I  know  that  you're  a  man." 

"  And  as  for  me,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  think  ye're  just 
tryin'  to  grow  an  oak  tree  in  a  flower  pot,  an'  it  can't 
be  done.  I  think  that  all  ye  can  do  is  to  breed  discon- 
tent —  an'  in  these  hills  discontent  is  dangerous.  But 
I  ain't  hinderin'  your  school  an'  I  don't  'low  to.  Ye'll 
find  out  for  yourself  that  it's  a  failure  an'  quit  at  your 
own  behest." 

"  I  sha'n't  quit,"  she  assured  him,  but  this  time  she 
smiled  as  she  said  it.  "  I  am  going  ahead  and  in  the 
end  I  am  going  to  undermine  the  regime  of  feud  and 
illiteracy ;  that  is,  I  and  others  like  me.  But  can't  we 
fight  the  thing  out  as  if  it  were  a  clean  game?  Can't 
we  be  friendly  adversaries?  You've  been  very  generous 
and  I've  been  a  bigoted  little  fool,  but  can't  you  forgive 
me  and  be  friends  ?  " 

He  straightened  while  his  face  hardened  again. 
Slowly  he  shook  his  head.  His  voice  was  very  grave 


188  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

and  uncompromising  though  without  discourtesy. 
"  I'm  afraid  it's  a  little  too  late  for  that." 

Juanita  slowly  drew  back  the  hand  she  had  extended 
and  her  cheeks  flushed  crimson.  It  was  the  first  time 
in  her  life  that  she  had  made  an  unsolicited  proffer  of 
friendship  —  and  she  had  been  rebuffed. 

"  Oh ! "  she  murmured  in  a  dazed,  hurt  voice,  in  which 
was  no  anger.  Then  she  smiled  and  said,  "  Then  there's 
nothing  else  to  say,  except  to  thank  you  a  thousand 
times." 

"  Ye  needn't  have  no  uneasiness  about  my  tryin'  to 
hinder  ye,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "  I  ain't  your  enemy 
an'  I  ain't  your  friend.  I'm  just  lookin'  on  an'  I  don't 
have  no  faith  in  your  success." 

"  Don't  you  feel  that  changes  must  come?  "  she  ques- 
tioned a  little  timidly.  "  They  have  come  everywhere 
else." 

"  They  will  come,"  his  voice  again  rose  vehemently. 
"  But  they'll  be  made  my  way  —  our  way,  not  yours. 
These  hills  sha'n't  always  be  a  reproach  to  the  State  of 
Kentucky.  They're  goin'  to  be  her  pride  some  day." 

"  That's  all,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  flinging  at  him  a 
glance  of  absolute  admiration.  "  I  don't  care  who  does 
it,  so  long  as  it's  done  right.  You've  got  to  see  sooner 
or  later  that  we're  working  to  the  same  end.  You  may 
not  be  my  friend,  but  I'm  going  to  be  yours." 

"  I'm  obleeged  to  ye,"  he  said  gravely,  and,  turning 
on  his  heel,  left  the  room  through  the  back  door.  For  a 
while  she  waited  for  him  to  return  and  then,  realizing 
that  the  interview  was  ended,  she,  too,  turned  and  went 
out  to  the  porch.  It  seemed  to  Juanita  Holland  as 
she  climbed  the  ridge  again,  that  a  decade  had  passed 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  189 

since  the  shadow  of  Jeb  McNash  had  fallen  across  the 
flower  bed.  With  that  note  from  Anse  Havey  had 
come  a  crushing  sense  of  her  helplessness  and  a  full 
realization  that  no  wheel  could  turn  when  one  of  the 
dictators  raised  a  forbidding  hand.  So  she  had  gone, 
expecting  to  face  vindictiveness,  and  had  for  the  first 
time  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  soul  that  lay  shuttered 
behind  the  mask  of  Anse  Havey's  veiled  eyes.  It  had 
only  been  a  glimpse  and  it  made  her  want  to  see  more. 
So  she  came  back,  thinking  of  a  half-barbaric  man  of 
strong  limbs  and  fearless  heart,  who  walked  under  the 
constant  menace  of  death,  and  who  combined  in  his  au- 
dacious make-up  a  dash  of  the  magnificent.  His  was 
a  thankless  mission  at  best ;  a  lonely  vigil  through  a 
long  night.  Not  only  did  he  face  the  constant  threat 
of  McBriar  hate,  but  to  the  outside  world  he  was  Bad 
Anse  Havey,  whose  name  was  held  in  disrepute.  Then 
the  girl  smiled,  for  the  October  air  was  still  full  of 
champagne  sparkle  and  she  was  young  enough  to  be 
stirred  by  the  sterling  mark  of  romance.  At  all  events 
she  had  met  a  man.  Here  was  no  swordless  sheath. 

So  when  she  reached  the  ridge  and  stood  again  under 
the  poplar  tree  she  looked  first  to  the  east  where  she 
could  see  the  ox-teams  still  snaking  logs  down  to  the 
mill  and  others  bringing  up  squared  timbers  for  her 
buildings,  and  a  happy  smile  lifted  the  corners  of  her 
subtly  curved  lips.  She  patted  the  bark  of  the  big 
tree  and,  gazing  affectionately  at  it  as  at  an  old  and 
confidential  friend,  she  murmured,  "  I'm  back  again, 
and  it's  all  right."  Then  with  another  glance  at  the 
somber  pile  of  brick  she  murmured,  "  Feud  leader,  law- 
maker, law-breaker  and  student  of  Shakespeare!  Of 


190  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

course  you're  not  at  all  typical,  but  you're  a  very  in- 
teresting somebody,  Honorable  Bad  Anse  Havey." 

But  the  smile  faded  as  she  turned  and  a  patch  of 
roof  down  the  other  way  caught  her  eye  and  reminded 
her  of  something.  She  had  yet  the  very  delicate  and 
unpleasant  duty  of  telling  young  Milt  McBriar  that,  to 
him,  the  school  was  closed  and  its  hospitality  withdrawn. 
She  was  glad  he  was  still  a  boy  for  that  would  mean  that 
in  him  remained  a  touch  of  chivalry  and  generosity. 
Soon  young  Milt  would  be  going  back  to  Lexington 
again  to  college,  for  he  was  one  of  the  few  boys  of  the 
hill  aristocracy  who  were  being  given  educations. 

The  girl  had  often  wondered  why  it  had  not  changed 
him  more.  He  was  almost  as  typical  a  mountaineer  as 
those  who  stayed  at  home  and  in  him  she  found  a  dis- 
couraging exponent  of  the  immutability  of  heredity. 
As  chance  would  have  it  young  Milt  rode  by  her  place 
the  next  day.  She  knew  he  would  come  back  the  same 
way  and  that  afternoon  as  he  was  returning  she  in- 
tercepted him  beyond  the  turn  of  the  road.  With  the 
foreign  courtesy  learned  abroad  he  lifted  his  hat  and 
dismounted.  Juanita  had  always  rather  liked  young 
Milt.  The  clear  fearlessness  of  his  eyes  gave  him  a 
certain  attractiveness,  and  his  face  had  so  far  escaped 
the  clouding  veil  of  sullenness  which  she  so  often  en- 
countered. 

At  first  she  was  a  little  confused  as  to  how  to  ap- 
proach the  subject  and  the  boy  rolled  a  cigarette  as 
he  stood  respectfully  waiting. 

"  Milt,"  she  said  at  last,  "  please  don't  misunderstand 
me.  It's  not  because  I  want  to,  but  I've  got  to  ask  you 
to  give  me  a  promise.  You  see  I  need  your  help." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  191 

At  that  the  half  smile  left  the  boy's  lips  and  a  half 
frown  came  to  his  eyes. 

"  I  reckon  I  know  what  ye  mean,"  he  said ;  "  young 
Jeb,  he's  asked  ye  ter  warn  me  off.  Why  don't  Jeb 
carry  his  own  messages  ?  " 

"  Milt,"  she  gravely  reminded  him,  resting  her  hand 
for  a  moment  on  his  coat-sleeve,  "  it's  more  serious 
than  that.  Jeb  ordered  me  to  send  his  sister  back  to 
the  cabin.  You  are  having  an  education.  I  want  her 
to  have  one.  She  has  the  right  to  it.  I  love  her  very 
dearly,  Milt,  and  if  you  are  a  friend  you  won't  rob 
her  of  her  chance." 

The  boy's  eyes  flashed.  "  Air  ye  goin'  ter  send  her 
back  thar,  ter  dwell  amongst  them  razor-back  hawgs  an' 
houn'-dawgs  an'  fleas?"  he  demanded. 

"  That  depends  on  you.  Jeb  is  the  head  of  his  fam- 
ily. I  can't  keep  her  without  his  consent.  I  had  to 
promise  him  that  you  shouldn't  visit  her." 

For  a  moment  the  heir  to  McBriar  leadership  stood 
twisting  the  toe  of  his  heavy  boot  in  the  dust  and  ap- 
parently studying  the  little  circles  it  stamped  out. 
Then  he  raised  his  eyes  and  contemplatively  studied 
the  mist-wreathed  crests  of  the  ridges. 

At  last  he  inquired,  "  What  hes  Dawn  got  ter  say  ?  " 

"  Dawn  hasn't  said  much,"  she  faltered,  remember- 
ing the  girl's  tirade.  Then  she  confessed :  "  You  see, 
Milt,  just  now  Dawn  is  thinking  of  herself  as  a  Havey 
and  of  you  as  a  McBriar.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  won't 
try  to  see  her  while  she's  here  at  the  school  —  not  at  all 
events  until  things  are  different." 

The  boy  was  wrestling  with  youth's  unwillingness  to 
be  coerced. 


192  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"An'  let  Dawn  think  that  her  brother  skeered  me 
off?  "  he  questioned  at  last  with  a  note  of  rising  de- 
fiance. 

"  Dawn  sha'n't  think  that.  She  shall  know  that  you 
have  acted  with  a  gentleman's  generosity,  Milt  —  and 
because  I've  asked  you  to  do  it." 

"  Hain't  I  good  enough  ter  keep  company  with  Fletch 
McNash's  gal?  "  The  lad  was  already  persuaded,  but 
his  stubbornness  fired  this  parting  shot. 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  that,  Milt,  and  you  know  it," 
declared  Juanita.  "  It's  just  that  one  of  your  people 
killed  one  of  his.  Put  yourself  in  Jeb's  place."  Still 
for  a  while  the  boy  stood  there,  scowling  down  at  the 
ground,  but  at  last  he  raised  his  face  and  nodded. 

"  It's  a  bargain,  ma'am,  but  mind  I  only  says  I  won't 
see  her  hyar  —  some  day  I'll  make  Jeb  pay  f er  it." 
He  mounted  and  rode  away  while  the  lazy,  hazy  sweet- 
ness of  the  smoky  mists  hung  splendidly  to  the  ridges 
and  the  sunset  flamed  at  his  back. 

Juanita  never  knew  what  details  of  the  incident  came 
to  Old  Milt's  ears,  but  when  next  the  head  of  the  house 
passed  her  on  the  road  he  spoke  with  a  diminished 
cordiality,  and  when  she  stopped  him  he  commented  a 
little  bitterly,  "  I  hear  ye're  a  runnin'  a  Havey  school 
over  thar  now.  Little  Milt  tells  me  ye  warned  him  offen 
yore  place."  She  tried  to  explain  and  though  he  pre- 
tended to  accept  all  she  said  in  good  humor,  she  knew 
in  her  heart  she  had  made  a  powerful  and  bitter  enemy. 

Even  now  when  the  desolate  fall  rains  must  soon  wash 
all  the  color  from  the  hills  and  leave  them  reeking  and 
gray,  the  drought  hung  on.  It  had  been  unprecedented 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  193 

and  sometimes  the  smoke  of  the  ridges  mingled  with 
the  real  smoke  of  forest  fires.  In  places  as  one  rode 
the  hills  one  came  upon  great  blackened  stretches  where 
charred  and  blistered  shafts  alone  remained  in  memory 
of  the  magnificent  forestry  of  yesterday. 

One  afternoon  Anse  Havey,  wandering  through  the 
timber  on  his  own  side  of  the  ridge,  came  upon  a  lone 
hunter  and  when  he  drew  near  it  proved  to  be  young 
Milt  McBriar. 

"  Mornin',  Milt,"  said  the  Havey,  "  I  didn't  know  ye 
ever  went  huntin'  over  here." 

The  boy,  who  in  feud  etiquette  was  a  trespasser,  met 
the  scrutiny  with  a  level  glance. 

"  I  was  a-gunnin'  fer  boomers,"  he  said,  using  the  local 
phrase  for  the  red  squirrels  of  the  hills ;  "  I  reckon  I 
hain't  hardly  got  no  license  ter  go  gunnin'  on  yore 
land." 

Anse  Havey  sat  down  on  a  log  and  looked  up  at  the 
boy  steadily.  At  last  he  said  gravely: 

"  Hunt  as  much  as  ye  like,  Milt,  only  be  heedful  not 
to  start  no  fires."  Milt  nodded  and  turned  to  go,  but 
the  older  man  called  him  back.  "  I  want  to  have  a 
word  with  ye,  Milt,"  he  said  soberly.  "  I  ain't  never 
heard  that  neither  the  McBriars  nor  the  Havey s  coun- 
tenanced settin'  fire  to  dwellin'  houses,  have  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  ye  means,"  responded  the  boy, 
dnd  the  gaze  that  passed  between  them  was  that  of  two 
men  who  can  look  direct  into  any  eyes. 

"  I  'lowed  it  would  astonish  ye,"  went  on  the  older 
man.  "  Back  of  the  new  school-house,  that's  still  full 
of  shavin's  an'  loose  timber  there's  a  little  stretch  of 
dry  woods  that  comes  right  down  to  the  back  door. 


194  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Somebody  has  done  laid  a  trail  of  shavin's  an*  leaves 
in  the  brush  there,  an'  soaked  'em  with  coal-oil.  Some 
feller  aims  to  burn  down  that  school-house  to-night." 

"Did  ye  tell  Miss  Holland?"  demanded  Milt,  in  a 
voice  of  deep  anxiety. 

"  No,  I  ain't  named  it  to  her."  Bad  Anse  sat  with 
a  seeming  of  indifference  in  his  face,  at  which  the  lad's 
blood  boiled. 

"  Does  ye  aim  ter  set  hyar  an'  let  her  place  git  burnt 
up?  "  he  snapped  out  wrathfully.  "  Because  if  ye  does, 
I  don't." 

Anse  Havey  laughed.  "  Well,  no,"  he  replied,  "  I 
didn't  aim  to  do  that."  Suddenly  he  rose.  "  What  I 
did  aim  to  do,  Milt,  was  this:  I  aimed  to  go  down 
there  to-night  with  enough  fellers  to  handle  either  the 
fire  or  whoever  starts  it.  I  aimed  to  see  who  was  doin' 
a  trick  like  that.  Will  you  go  with  me?  " 

"  Me  ?  "  echoed  Milt  in  astonishment.  This  idea  of 
the  two  factions  acting  in  concert  was  a  decided  in- 
novation. It  might  be  loaded.  It  might  be  a  trap. 
Suddenly  the  boy  demanded,  "  Why  don't  ye  ask  pap  ?  " 

"  I  don't  ask  your  pap  nothing."  In  Havey's  reply 
was  a  quick  and  truculent  snap  that  rarely  came  to  his 
voice.  "  I'm  askin'  you,  an'  you  can  take  my  propo- 
sition or  leave  it.  That  house-burner  is  goin'  to  die. 
If  he's  one  of  my  people  I  want  to  know  it.  If  he's  one 
of  your  people  you  ought  to  feel  the  same  way.  Will 
you  go  with  me?  " 

The  boy  considered  the  proposal  for  a  time  in  silence. 
Dawn  would  be  in  danger!  At  last  he  said  gravely: 
"  Hit  sounds  like  a  fa'r  proposition.  I'll  go  along  with 
ye  an'  meantime  I'll  keep  my  own  counsel." 


CHAPTER  XX 

ANSE  HAVEY  had  been  looking  ahead.     When 
Old  Milt  McBriar  had  said,  "  Them  Haveys  'lows 
thet  I'd  cross  hell  on  a  rotten  plank  ter  do  'em 
injury,"  he  had  shot  close  to  the  mark.     Bad  Anse 
knew  that  the  quiet-visaged  old  murder-lord  could  no 
more  free  himself  from  guile  and  deceit  than  the  rattler 
can  separate  himself  from  the  poison  which  impregnates 
its  fangs  and  nature. 

When  he  had  taken  Milt's  hand,  sealing  the  truce,  he 
had  not  been  beguiled,  but  realized  that  the  compact 
was  only  strategy  and  was  totally  insincere.  Yet  in 
young  Milt  he  saw  possibilities.  He  was  accustomed 
to  rely  on  his  own  judgment  and  he  recognized  a  clean 
and  sterling  strain  in  the  younger  McBriar.  He  hated 
the  breed  with  a  hatred  that  was  flesh  of  his  flesh  and 
bone  of  his  bone,  but  with  an  eye  of  prophecy  he  foresaw 
the  day  when  a  disrupted  mountain  community  must 
fall  asunder  unless  native  sons  could  unite  against  the 
conquest  of  lowland  greed.  He  could  never  trust  Old 
Milt,  but  he  hoped  that  he  and  young  Milt,  who  would 
some  day  succeed  to  his  father's  authority,  might  stand 
together  in  that  inevitable  crisis. 

This  idea  had  for  a  long  time  been  vaguely  taking 
shape  in  his  mind,  and  when  he  met  young  Milt  in  the 
woods  and  proposed  uniting  to  save  Juanita's  school  he 

was  laying  a  corner-stone  for  that  future  alliance. 

195 


196  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

At  sunset  young  Milt  came  and  he  came  without 
having  spoken  of  his  purpose  at  his  own  house.  The 
night  was  sharp  and  moonless  with  no  light  save  that 
which  came  from  the  coldly  glittering  stars  and  Anse 
and  young  Milt  crouched  for  hours,  knee  to  knee  in 
the  dead  thickets,  keeping  watch. 

At  last  they  both  saw  a  creeping  figure  which  was 
only  a  vague  shadow  moving  among  shadows  and  they 
peered  with  straining  eyes  and  raised  rifles.  But  the 
shadow  fell  very  still  and  since  it  was  only  by  its  move- 
ment that  they  could  detect  it  they  waited  in  vain. 
What  hint  of  being  watched  was  given  out  no  one  could 
say.  The  woods  were  still  and  the  two  kneeling  figures 
in  the  laurel  made  no  sound.  The  other  men,  waiting 
at  their  separated  posts,  were  equally  invisible  and 
noiseless,  but  some  intangible  premonition  had  come 
to  the  shadow  which  lost  itself  in  the  impenetrable  black- 
ness and  began  its  retreat  with  its  object  unaccom- 
plished. 

Young  Milt  went  back  to  his  house  in  the  cold  mists 
of  dawn.  No  shot  had  been  fired,  no  face  recognized, 
but  the  Havey  and  the  McBriar  both  knew  that  the 
school  had  been  saved  by  their  joint  vigilance. 

Some  days  later  the  news  of  that  night-watch  leaked 
through  to  Jerry  Everson  who  bore  the  tidings  to 
Juanita,  and  she  wrote  a  note  to  Anse  Havey,  asking 
him  to  come  over  and  let  her  express  her  thanks  in  per- 
son. 

The  mail  rider  brought  her  a  brief  reply,  penned  in 
a  hand  of  copy-book  care. 

"I  don't  take  any  credit,"  [said  the  writer].  "I  only  did 
what  any  other  man  would  do  and  young  Milt  McBriar  did  as 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  197 

much  as  I  did.    Thank  him  if  you  want  to.     H  would  only  be  awk- 
ward for  me  to  come  over  there.     Respectfully,    ANSE  HAVEY." 

The  girl  laid  the  letter  down  with  a  sense  of  disap- 
pointment and  chagrin.  She  had  been  accustomed  to 
having  men  come  to  her  when  she  summoned  them,  and 
come  willingly.  For  a  time  she  was  deeply  apprehen- 
sive, too,  lest  the  effort  which  had  failed  at  first  might 
be  more  successfully  repeated,  but  that  week  brought 
the  long-delayed  rains.  They  stripped  the  hills  of  glory 
and  left  them  gray  and  stark  and  dripping.  The  hori- 
zon reeked  with  raw  fogs  and  utter  desolation  settled 
on  the  mountains. 

Trickling  streams  were  torrents  again  and  the  dan- 
ger of  fires  was  over.  Old  Milt  McBriar  heard  of  his 
son's  part  in  the  watching  of  the  school,  and  brooded 
blackly  as  he  gnawed  at  the  stem  of  his  pipe,  but  he 
said  nothing.  The  boy  had  been  sent  away  to  college 
and  had  been  given  every  advantage.  Now  he  had  un- 
wittingly, but  none  the  less  surely,  turned  his  rifle  on 
one  of  his  father's  hirelings  bent  on  his  father's  work, 
for  the  oil-soaked  kindling  had  been  laid  at  Old  Milt's 
command.  The  thing  did  not  tend  to  make  the  leader 
of  the  McBriars  partial  to  the  innovations  from  Down- 
below. 

One  day  when  Juanita  went  down  to  the  post-office 
which  nestled  unobtrusively  behind  the  single  counter 
of  the  shack  store  at  the  gap,  she  found  a  letter  di- 
rected in  a  hand  which  set  her  heart  beating  and  re- 
vived many  old  memories. 

The  sun  had  come  out  after  those  first  rains  and  a 
little  of  the  Indian  summer  languor  still  slept  along  the 
skyline,  but  the  woods  were  for  the  most  part  bare  and 


198  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  air  was  piercing.  In  a  formless  mass  of  wet  mold, 
that  no  longer  rattled  crisply  underfoot,  lay  all  the 
leaves  that  had  a  few  days  ago  been  stitches  in  the 
tapestried  and  embroidered  mantle  of  the  hills ;  all  ex- 
cept a  few  tenaciously  clinging  survivors  and  the  russet 
of  the  scrub  oaks.  The  pines  that  had  been  sober  greens 
through  the  season  of  flaming  color  were  still  sober 
greens  when  all  else  had  turned  to  cinnamon  and  slate. 
But  in  spite  of  the  cold  Juanita  wished  to  carry  that 
letter  up  to  the  crest  and  read  it  there  under  the  poplar 
tree.  As  she  climbed  she  heard  the  whistle  of  quail  off 
in  a  cornfield  and  two  or  three  rabbits  jumped  up  and 
loped  into  the  cover,  flaunting  their  cotton  tails.  So 
she  tore  the  end  from  her  envelope  and  began  to  read 
the  letter,  from  the  man  she  had  sent  away.  He  said 
that  he  had  made  a  sincere  effort  to  reconcile  himself 
to  her  decision;  the  decision  which  exiled  him.  The 
effort  had  failed.  He  had  been  to  the  Mediterranean 
and  the  East. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  terrace  at  Shepherd's,  when 
you  and  I  sat  there  together  ?  "  he  asked,  and  the  girl 
who  knew  him  so  well  could  fancy  the  lonely  longing 
in  his  face  as  he  had  written  it. 

"  Can  you  close  your  dear  eyes  and  see  again  the 
motors  purring  by  and  the  donkeys  and  camels  and 
street  fakirs  with  cobras  in  flat  baskets  and  apes  on 
chains?  Can  you  hear  the  laughter  of  the  tea-drinkers 
under  the  awnings  and  the  Fellaheen  chatter  and  Vien- 
nese orchestras  contending  with  the  tom-toms  of  re- 
turning pilgrims?  Dearest,  can  you  see  the  blue  tri- 
angles of  shadow  that  the  pyramids  throw  down  in  the 
moonlight  on  the  yellow  sands  of  the  desert?  The  des- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  199 

ert  has  no  loneliness  greater  than  mine."  She  let  the 
letter  drop  for  a  moment.  Loneliness?  Suddenly  she 
felt  that  she  herself  was  the  loneliest  person  in  the  uni- 
verse. Then  she  read  again. 

"  Can  you  see  the  Jaffa  Gate  and  the  Tower  of  David 
in  Jerusalem?  I  have  been  there  —  alone  this  time. 
Do  you  remember  how  you  were  touched  by  the  fanatical 
devotion  that  lighted  the  heavy  faces  of  the  Russian 
peasants  who  had  journeyed  so  far  in  their  pilgrim- 
ages to  the  shrines  of  the  Holy  City?  Can  you  see 
them  again  in  their  sheepskin  jackets  and  felt  boots 
and  ragged  beards  creeping  on  hands  and  knees  through 
the  temple  of  the  Sepulchre  and  kissing  the  stones? 

"  I,  too,  was  a  pilgrim  seeking  peace,  but  I  did  not 
find  it.  Can  you  not  find  it  in  your  heart  to  be  touched 
by  my  devotion?  Not  only  happiness,  but  peace  dwells 
where  you  are,  and  I  am  coming  to  you. 

"  Do  not  forbid  me,  for  I  am  coming  anyway.  I  am 
coming  because  I  must ;  because  I  love  you." 

Yes,  she  remembered  all  the  things  of  which  he  spoke 
—  and  many  others.  All  the  old  life  which  she  had  re- 
nounced rose  before  her,  slugging  her  senses  with  home- 
sickness. Around  her  lay  the  escarpments  of  the  iso- 
lated hills  which  would  soon  sink  down  to  the  sodden 
wretchedness  of  a  shut-in  winter. 

She  could  see  ahead,  at  that  moment,  only  failure, 
and  hear  only  the  echoes  of  many  warnings.  Yet  here 
she  must  stay  because  she  had  cast  her  lot  among  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  Martha,  who 

".  .  .  do  not  preach  that  their  God  will  rouse  them  a  little  be- 
lore  the  nuts  work  loose; 


200  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

They  do  not  preach  that  His  Pity  allows  them  to  leave  their  work 

whenever  they  choose. 
As  in  the  thronged  and  the  lighted  ways  so  in  the  dark  and  the 

desert  they  stand, 
Wary  and  watchful  all  their  days,  that  their  brethren's  days  may 

be  long  in  the  land.  .  .  ." 

She  sat  for  a  long  time  gazing  off  at  the  distances, 
and  shivered  a  little  in  the  bite  of  the  raw  air.  Then 
she  looked  up  and  saw  a  figure  at  her  side.  It  was 
Bad  Anse  Havey. 

He  bowed  and  stripped  off  his  coat,  which,  without 
asking  permission  he  threw  around  her  shivering  shoul- 
ders. "  I  didn't  aim  to  intrude  on  ye,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  I  didn't  know  ye  was  up  here.  Do  ye  come  often  ?  " 

"  Very  often,"  she  answered,  folding  the  letter  and 
putting  it  back  into  its  envelope.  "  When  I  first  came 
to  the  Widow  Everson's  I  discovered  this  tree  and  it 
seemed  to  beckon  to  me  to  come  up.  Look ! "  She 
rose  and  pointed  off  with  a  gauntleted  hand.  "  I  can 
stand  here  and  see  the  fortifications  of  my  two  enemies. 
There  is  your  place  and  there  is  Milt  McBriar's."  She 
smiled  with  unconscious  archness.  "  But  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  let  you  be  my  enemy  any  more.  I've  decided 
that  you  have  got  to  be  my  friend,  whether  you  want 
to  be  or  not  —  and  what  I  decide  upon,  must  be." 

Bad  Anse  Havey  stood  looking  into  her  eyes  with 
the  disconcerting  steadiness  of  gaze  that  she  always 
found  it  difficult  to  sustain,  but  his  only  response  was  a 
sober,  "  I'm  obleeged  to  ye." 

Perhaps  that  letter  with  its  old  reminders  had  brought 
back  a  little  of  the  old  self  and  the  old  self's  innocent 
coquetry.  She  stood  with  her  gauntleted  hands  in  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  201 

deep  pockets  of  her  sweater  jacket,  and  his  coat  hang- 
ing from  her  shoulders.  About  her  deep  violet  eyes 
and  sensitive  lips  lurked  a  subtle  appeal  for  friendship 
—  perhaps,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  for  love. 

"  I  have  behaved  abominably  to  you,  Mr.  Havey," 
she  confessed. 

"  It's  natural  that  you  should  refuse  me  forgive- 
ness." For  a  moment  her  eyes  danced  and  she  looked 
up  challengingly,  into  his  face.  "  But  it's  natural,  too, 
that  I  should  refuse  to  let  you  refuse.  We  are  going  to 
be  friends.  I  am  going  to  smash  your  old  feud  to 
splinters  and  I'm  going  to  beat  you,  and  just  the  same 
we  are  going  to  be  friends."  Again  his  reply  was  brief. 

"  I'm  obleeged  to  ye." 

Against  the  girl  who  had  scorned  him  and  denounced 
him,  Anse  Havey's  wounded  pride  had  reared  a  fortress 
of  reserve,  and  yet  already  he  felt  its  walls  tumbling. 
The  smile  in  her  eyes  was  carrying  it  by  assault.  It  had 
no  defense  against  the  sweetness  of  her  voice.  He  had 
for  the  most  part  known  only  the  women  who  live  to 
work  and  raise  large  families ;  who  servilely  obey  the 
lordly  sex  and  soon  wither.  He  had  in  him  much  of 
the  woman-hater,  and  he  did  not  realize  that  it  was  be- 
cause he  had  never  before  known  a  woman  who  was  at 
once  as  brave  and  intelligent  as  himself  and  as  exquisite 
in  charm  as  the  wildflowers  on  his  hillsides.  This  girl 
who  smiled  at  him  was  not  the  same  woman  he  had  re- 
solved to  hate,  whose  friend  he  had  declined  to  be. 
She  was  a  new  and  fragrant  being  in  whose  presence  he 
suddenly  felt  himself  unspeakably  crude. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me,"  she  went  on  and 


202  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  note  of  banter  left  her  voice,  "  and  you  refused  to 
let  me  thank  you." 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent  then  he  said,  awkwardly, 
"  I  reckon  it's  pretty  easy  to  be  good  to  you."  After 
that  she  heard  him  saying  in  a  very  soft  voice. 

".  .  .  One  of  the  first  things  I  remembers  is  being 
fetched  up  here  by  my  mammy  when  I  was  a  spindlin* 
little  chap.  She  used  to  bring  me  up  here  and  tell  me 
Indian  stories.  Some  times  my  pappy  came  with  us, 
but  mostly  it  was  just  my  mammy  an'  me." 

"  Your  father  was  a  soldier,  wasn't  he  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Yes.  He  was  a  captain  in  Morgan's  command. 
When  the  war  ended  he  come  on  back  here  an'  relapsed. 
I  reckon  I'd  oughter  be  right-smart  ashamed  of  that,  bi-L 
somehow  I'm  tol'able  proud  of  it.  He  'lowed  that  what 
was  good  enough  for  his  folks  was  good  enough  for 
him — "  He  broke  off  suddenly  and  a  smile  came  to 
his  face ;  a  remarkably  nai've  and  winning  smile,  the  girl 
thought.  Striking  an  attitude,  he  added,  in  a  tone  of 
mock  seriousness,  and  perfect  lowland  English,  marred 
by  no  trace  of  dialect.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Hol- 
land. I  mean  that  what  was  sufficiently  good  for  his 
environment  appeared  adequate  to  him." 

The  girl's  laughter  pealed  out  in  the  cool  air  and  she 
said  with  an  after-note  of  surprise,  "  Why,  Mr.  Havey, 
you  didn't  speak  like  a  mountain  man  then.  I  thought 
I  was  listening  to  a  '  furriner.' ' 

He  nodded  his  head  and  the  smile  died  from  his  lips. 
Into  his  eyes  came  the  look  of  steady  resolve  which  was 
willing  to  fight  for  an  idea. 

"  I  just  did  that  to  show  ye  that  I  could.     If  I  wanted 


203 

to  I  reckon  I  could  talk  as  good  English  as  you.  I 
reckon  ye  won't  hardly  hear  me  do  it  no  more." 

"  But   why  ?  "   she  inquired   in  perplexity. 

"  I  reckon  it  sounds  kinder  rough  an'  ign'rant  to  ye ; 
this  mountain  speech.  Well,  to  me  it's  music.  It's  the 
language  of  my  own  people  an'  my  own  hills.  I  loves 
it.  It  don't  make  no  diff'rance  to  me  that  it's  bad  gram- 
mar. Birds  don't  sing  so  sweet  when  ye  teaches  'em 
new  tunes.  To  my  ears  the  talk  of  Down-below  is  hard 
an'  unnatural.  I  don't  like  the  ways  nor  the  speech 
of  the  flat  countries.  An'  as  for  me  I'll  have  none  of 
it.  Besides  I  belongs  here  an'  if  I  didn't  talk  like  they 
do,  my  people  wouldn't  trust  me."  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment, then  added,  "  I'd  hate  to  have  my  people  not 
trust  me.  So  if  ye  don't  mind  I  reckon  I'll  go  on  talkin' 
as  I  learnt  to  talk." 

She  nodded  her  head.     "  I  see,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  What  do  ye  aim  to  call  this  school  ?  "  asked  the 
man  suddenly. 

"  Why,  I  thought  I'd  call  it  the  Holland  School,"  she 
answered;  and  when  he  shook  his  head  and  said  per- 
emptorily, "  Don't  do  it,"  she  colored. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  name  it  for  myself,  of  course,"  she 
explained.  "  I  wanted  to  call  it  after  my  grandfather. 
He  always  wanted  to  do  something  for  education  here 
in  the  Kentucky  hills." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  find  no  fault  with  the  name  of 
Holland,"  he  assured  her  gravely.  "  That's  as  good  a 
name  as  any.  But  don't  call  it  a  school.  Call  it  a 
college." 

"  But,"  she  demurred,  "  it's  not  going  to  be  a  col- 
lege. It's  just  a  school." 


204  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Again  the  boyish  smile  came  to  his  face  and  seemed 
to  erase  ten  years  from  his  seeming  of  age.  His  man- 
ner of  speech  made  her  feel  that  they  were  sharing  a 
secret. 

"  That  don't  make  any  difference,"  he  announced. 
"  Mountain  folks  are  almighty  proud  an'  touchy.  I 
shouldn't  be  astonished  if  some  gray-haired  folks  came 
to  study  the  primer.  They'll  come  to  college  all  right, 
but  it  wouldn't  hardly  be  dignified  to  go  to  school.  If 
you  want  to  get  'em  ye  must  needs  call  it  a  college." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  again  and  said  in  a  soft  voice : 
"  You  are  always  teaching  me  things  I  ought  to  know. 
Thank  you." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SHE  stood  as  he  left  and  watched  him  striding  down 
the  slope ;  and  he  went  back  to  his  house  and  found 
it  suddenly  dark  and  cheerless  and  unsatisfying. 
His  retainers  noted  that  he  was  silent  and  abstracted, 
and  often  when  the  fingers  of  the  cold  rains  were  drum- 
ming at  midnight  on  the  roof,  they  heard,  too,  his  restive 
feet,  tramping  his  room.  For  into  the  soul  of  Bad  Anse 
Havey  had  come  a  new  element,  and  the  prophet  which 
was  in  him  could  descry  in  the  future  a  new  menace;  a 
necessity  for  curbing  the  grip  of  this  new  dream  which 
might  easily  outgrow  all  his  other  dreams  and  bring 
torture  to  his  heart.  Here  was  a  woman  of  fine  fiber 
and  delicate  culture  in  whose  eyes  he  might  at  best  be 
an  interesting  barbarian.  Between  them  lay  all  the 
impassable  barriers  that  quarantined  the  tangled  coves 
of  the  mountains  from  the  valleys  of  the  rich  lowlands. 
Between  their  lives  and  view-points  lay  the  same  irrec- 
oncilable differences. 

And  yet  her  image  was  haunting  him  as  he  went  his 
way,  and  in  his  heart  was  awakening  an  ache  and  a 
rapture.  He  told  himself  that  it  would  be  wiser  to  stay 
away.  He  could  no  longer  think  of  her  as  a  school- 
teacher. Her  school  was  nothing  to  him,  but  she  her- 
self had  come  and  awakened  him,  and  he  dreaded  what 
might  follow. 

On  several  of  her  buildings  now  the  hammers  were 
•M 


206  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

busy  shingling  the  roofs.  Her  influence  grew  and 
spread  among  the  simple  folk  to  whom  she  was  unosten- 
tatiously ministering;  an  influence  with  which  the  old 
order  must  some  day  reckon.  It  was  a  quiet  and  in- 
tangible sort  of  thing,  but  it  was  gradually  melting  the 
hardness  of  life  as  spring  sun  and  showers  melt  the  aus- 
terity of  winter. 

Anse  Havey  set  his  face  against  crossing  her  thresh- 
old with  much  the  same  resolution  that  Ulysses  stuffed 
his  ears  against  the  siren  song  —  and  yet  with  remark- 
able frequency  they  climbed  at  the  same  time  from  op- 
posite directions  and  met  by  the  poplar  tree  on  the 
ridge. 

"  It's  the  wrong  notion,"  he  told  her  obstinately 
when  her  enthusiasm  broke  from  her  in  new  plans  and 
prophecies.  "  It's  teachin'  things  that's  goin'  ter 
make  the  children  ashamed  of  their  cabins  an'  their 
folks.  It's  goin'  ter  make  'em  want  things  ye  can't 
hardly  give  'em. 

"  Go  to  any  cabin  in  these  hills  an'  ye'll  find  the  pinch 
of  poverty,  but  ye  won't  find  shame  for  that  poverty  in 
none  of  'em.  We  ain't  got  so  many  virtues  here  maybe, 
but  we've  got  a  few.  We  can  wear  our  privations  like 
a  uniform  that  we  ain't  ashamed  of  ...  yes,  an'  make 
a  kind  of  merit  out  of  it." 

"  I'm  not  out  of  sympathy  with  that,"  she  argued,  "  I 
think  it's  splendid." 

"  All  right,"  he  answered,  "  but  after  ye've  taught 
'em  a  few  things  they  won't  think  it's  splendid.  Ye'll 
breed  discontent  an'  then  ye'll  go  away,  an'  all  ye'll 
have  done  will  be  to  have  knocked  their  one  simple  vir- 
tue down  round  their  ears." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  207 

"  How  many  times  do  I  have  to  tell  you  I'm  not  going 
away?  "  demanded  the  girl  a  little  hotly.  "  Just  watch 
me." 

Again  he  shook  his  head  and  into  his  eyes  came  a 
look  of  sudden  pain.  "  I  reckon  ye'll  go,"  he  said. 
"  All  good  things  go.  The  birds  go  when  winter  comes 
an'  the  flowers  go." 

So  in  an  impersonal  way  they  kept  up  their  semblance 
of  a  duel  and  mocked  each  other. 

"  When  the  crusaders  went  to  Jerusalem,"  she  told 
him  smilingly,  "  and  Richard,  the  Lion-hearted,  met 
the  Saracen,  he  admitted  that  he  had  come  to  know  a 
gallant  enemy  —  but  a  heathen  none  the  less,  and  war 
went  on."  She  paused  and  her  challenge  was  a  thing 
that  danced  in  her  eyes  and  at  her  lips,  all  tangled  up 
with  the  banter  of  cordial  friendliness,  "  Now,  Mr. 
Havey,  I  admit  that  you  are  a  brave  enemy,  but  you 
stand  for  the  heathen  order  and  I'm  going  to  wipe  out 
that  order.  You'd  better  surrender  to  me  while 
you  still  have  a  chance  to  do  it  with  the  honors  of 
war." 

The  naive  smile  came  to  his  lips  again  for  a  moment 
and  made  him  seem  a  boy. 

"  I'm  much  obleeged,  ma'am,"  he  acknowledged. 
"  It's  right  well-favored  of  ye  to  offer  me  so  much  mercy, 
but  if  I  remembers  rightly,  them  crusaders  didn't  take 
Jerusalem  away  with  'em,  did  they?  " 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  indolently  stretched  the 
long  arms  in  which  the  sinews  were  like  raw-hide  thongs, 
and  the  ripple  of  muscles  like  those  of  a  race-horse  on 
the  very  edge  of  his  training. 

"  I  may  be  foolish,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but  I  could 


208  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

pick  ye  up  like  a  doll.  Somehow  hit's  right  hard  fer 
me  ter  realize  thet  ye're  a-goin'  ter  smash  me." 

"  *  Thrice  armed  is  he  who  hath  his  quarrel  just,' * 
she  flashed  at  him. 

"  Yes'm,  a  poet  said  that."  She  was  now  quoting 
from  one  of  the  few  writers  he  knew  as  well  as  she  did 
herself.  "  But  a  soldier  once  said,  '  God's  on  the  side 
of  ther  heaviest  battalions.'  When  the  battle's  all  over 
the  poet  comes  in  handy,  but  whilst  it's  still  goin'  on, 
I'd  ruther  take  the  evidence  of  the  soldier."  It  was 
very  easy  for  him  to  think  of  her  as  supreme  in  the  con- 
quest of  love,  but  very  difficult  to  take  her  seriously  as 
a  force  for  altering  the  conditions  that  had  stood  so 
long. 

"  Before  the  march  of  civilization  the  wild  order 
always  goes  down,"  she  informed  him  with  confidence. 
"  It's  history's  lesson." 

"Well,  now,  I'm  not  so  sure  ye  ain't  kinder  doin' 
hist'ry  an  injustice,"  he  contended.  "  The  lesson  I 
reads  is  that  whenever  civilization  gets  drawn  too  fine, 
an'  weakens,  it's  a  barbarian  race  that  overruns  it. 
It's  the  strong  blood.  Some  day  soon  there  won't  be 
no  pure  American  blood  in  America,  except  right  here 
in  these  mountains.  Thar's  still  a  few  of  us  left 
here." 

Bad  Anse  Havey  was  raw  material.  He  treasured  on 
his  book  shelf  a  half-dozen  volumes.  These  he  knew  as 
a  wise  man  knows  his  own  soul.  Through  them  he  had 
had  the  companionship  of  a  few  great  minds,  and  beside 
them  he  had  scant  erudition.  There  lay  in  his  life  the 
materials  for  a  human  edifice  of  imposing  lines  and  pro- 
portions —  and  the  question  was  whether  Life,  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  209 

builder,  would  rear  them  or  leave  them  lying  in  unformed 
piles  of  possibility. 

Once  Judge  Sidering  rode  over  from  Peril  to  visit 
the  school  and  express  his  gratification  at  its  building. 
Judge  Sidering  presided  over  the  "  High  Court  "  of  the 
circuit,  and  with  him  came  Anse  Havey.  Juanita 
knew  that  His  Honor  had  gone  down  to  the  State's 
metropolis  and  had  sat  as  chairman  in  a  convention  to 
name  a  Governor.  She  knew  that  he  had  proven  him- 
self the  most  astute,  the  most  audacious  and  the  most 
successful  of  politicians.  He  had  written  a  chapter 
into  State  history,  not  admirable,  perhaps,  but  admir- 
ably bold.  Such  a  man  must  have  iron  in  his  make-up, 
and  yet  when  he  was  in  the  presence  of  Bad  Anse  Havey 
his  attitude  was  that  of  vassal  to  over-lord,  and  she 
knew  that  he  wore  his  judicial  ermine  at  the  behest  and 
will  of  Anse  Havey,  and  that  he  performed  his  duties 
subject  to  Anse  Havey 's  orders. 

In  an  office  which  overlooks  the  gray  stone  Court- 
house in  Louisville,  sat  a  youngish,  broad-shouldered 
man  of  somewhat  engaging  countenance.  In  the  small 
ante-room  of  his  sanctum  was  a  young  woman  who  ham- 
mered industriously  on  a  typewriter  and  told  most  of 
the  visitors  who  called  that  Mr.  Trevor  was  out.  That 
was  because  most  of  those  who  came  bore  about  them 
the  unmistakable  hall-mark  of  creditors.  Mr.  Trevor's 
list  of  creditors  would  have  made  as  long  a  scroll  as  his 
list  of  business  activities.  Yet  for  all  these  cares  Mr. 
Trevor  was  just  now  sitting  with  his  tan  shoes  propped 
on  his  broad  desk  and  his  face  was  untroubled.  He  was 


210  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

one  of  those  interesting  gentlemen  who  give  a  touch  of 
color  to  the  monotony  of  humdrum  life.  Mr.  Trevor 
was  a  soldier  of  fortune  who  sold  not  his  sword,  but  the 
very  keen  and  flexible  blade  of  his  resourceful  brain. 

Roger  Malcolm  of  Philadelphia  knew  him  only  as 
the  pleasant  and  chance  acquaintance  of  an  evening 
spent  in  a  New  York  club. 

He  had  impressed  the  Easterner  as  a  most  fascinat- 
ing fellow  who  seemed  to  have  engaged  in  large  enter- 
prises here  and  there  over  the  face  of  the  globe.  So 
when  Mr.  Malcolm  presented  his  card  in  the  office  ante- 
room the  young  woman  at  the  machine  gave  him  one  fa- 
voring glance  and  did  not  say  that  Mr.  Trevor  was  out. 

"  So  you  are  going  to  penetrate  the  wilds  of  the 
Cumberlands,  are  you?"  inquired  Mr.  Trevor  in  his 
pleasing  voice,  as  he  grasped  his  visitor's  hand.  "  Tell 
me  just  where  you  mean  to  go  and  I'll  tell  you  how  to 
do  it  with  the  least  difficulty.  The  least  difficulty  down 
there  is  plenty." 

"  My  obj  ective,"  replied  Mr.  Malcolm,  "  is  a  place 
at  the  headwaters  of  a  creek  called  Tribulation,  some 
thirty  miles  from  a  town  called  Peril." 

"  I  know  the  places  —  and  their  names  fit  them.  I'd 
offer  to  go  with  you,  but  I'm  afraid  I  wouldn't  prove  a 
benefit  to  you.  I'm  non  grata  with  Bad  Anse  Havey, 
Esquire,  and  Mr.  Milton  McBriar,  who  are  the  local 
dictators." 

Mr.  Malcolm  laughed.  "  In  passing,"  he  said,  "  I 
dropped  in  to  talk  over  the  coal-development  proposi- 
tion which  you  said  would  interest  me." 

Mr.  Trevor  reached  into  his  desk  and  brought  out 
several  maps. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  The  tentacles  of  the  railroads  are  reaching  in  here 
and  there,"  he  began  with  the  promoter's  suave  ease 
of  manner.  "  It  is  a  region  which  enterprise  can 
no  longer  afford  to  neglect  and  the  best  field  of  all  is 
as  yet  virgin  and  untouched." 

"  Why  did  you  drop  the  enterprise  yourself  ?  "  in- 
quired his  visitor. 

"  I  didn't  have  the  capital  to  swing  it.  Of  course  if 
it  interests  you  and  your  associates  it  can  be  put 
through." 

Malcolm  nodded.  "  I  am  going  primarily  by  way  of 
making  a  visit,"  he  said.  "  I  meant  to  go  before  you 
roused  my  interest  in  your  proposition  and  it  occurred 
to  me  that  I  might  possibly  be  able  to  combine  business 
with  pleasure." 

The  promoter  looked  up  with  a  shade  of  surprise. 

"You  have  friends  out  there  in  that  God-forsaken 
tangle  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  God  help  them !  " 

"  A  lady  whom  I  have  known  for  a  long  while  is  es- 
tablishing a  school  there." 

With  the  mention  of  the  lady,  Malcolm's  voice  took 
on  an  uncommunicative  note  and  Mr.  Trevor  at  once 
changed  the  topic  to  coal  and  timber. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  girl  from  Philadelphia  had  for  some  days  been 
watching  the  road  which  led  in  tortuous  twists 
from  Peril  to  the  gap.  She  herself  hardly  rea- 
lized how  expectantly  she  had  watched  it.  Her  lips  fell 
into  a  wistful  droop  and  the  little  line  between  her  eyes 
bespoke  such  a  poignancy  of  pain  that  she  seemed  to 
be  all  alone  in  the  world.  She  was  thinking  of  the  man 
she  had  sent  away  and  wondering  what  their  meeting 
would  be  like.  And  the  girl  of  the  hills,  sitting  near  by, 
would  look,  with  her  fingers  gripping  themselves  tightly 
together  and  an  ache  in  her  own  heart.  Deep  in  Dawn's 
nature,  which  had  been  coming  of  late  into  a  sweetly 
fragrant  bloom,  crept  the  rancor  of  a  fierce  jealousy 
for  the  man  from  Down-below  whom  she  had  never 
seen,  but  whose  letter  could  make  Juanita  forget  pres- 
ent things  and  drift  away  into  a  world  of  other  days, 
and  other  scenes;  a  world  in  which  Dawn  herself  had 
no  part. 

Juanita  was  wondering  if  after  all  she  had  not  mis- 
judged Roger  Malcolm.  She  wanted  to  think  she  had, 
because  her  heart  was  hungry  for  love.  She  had  writ- 
ten to  him  sternly  forbidding  his  coming  and  if  he 
obeyed  that  mandate  he  would  of  course  prove  himself 
still  weak  and  lacking  in  initiative.  So  she  was  wait- 
ing with  a  fluttering  heart. 

But  on  the  day  that  he  came  she  was  not  watching. 

212 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  213 

He  had  pushed  on  at  a  rate  of  speed  which  mountain 
patience  would  not  have  countenanced  and  had  arrived 
in  two  hours  less  than  the  journey  should  logically 
have  required.  The  heaving  sides  of  his  hired  horse 
told  almost  as  much  of  the  eagerness  that  had  driven 
him  as  did  the  frank  worship  of  his  face. 

At  the  front  fence  he  hitched  his  mount  and  walked 
noiselessly  up  to  the  larger  house.  Two  feminine 
figures  sat  sewing  in  the  hall  as  he  silently  opened  the 
unlatched  door  and  let  himself  in.  One  of  them  was  a 
figure  he  knew  even  with  its  back  turned ;  a  figure  which, 
because  of  something  distinctively  subtle  and  wondrous, 
could  belong  to  no  one  else.  The  other  was  a  moun- 
tain girl  of  undeniable  beauty,  but,  to  him,  of  no  in- 
terest. 

It  was  Dawn  who  saw  him  first  and,  with  a  glance 
that  brought  a  resentful  flash  to  her  eyes,  she  rose  si- 
lently and  slipped  out  through  a  side  door.  Then  as 
Juanita  came  to  her  feet  with  a  little  gasp  and  held  out 
both  hands  the  man's  heart  began  to  hammer  wildly, 
and  he  knew  that  the  fingers  he  held  were  trembling. 

He  would  have  taken  her  at  once  in  his  arms,  but 
she  held  him  off  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  told  you  not  to  come,"  she  rebuked  in  a  voice 
that  lacked  conviction. 

"  And  I  flagrantly  disobeyed  you,"  he  told  her, 
"  as  I  mean  henceforth  to  disobey  you.  Once  I  lost  you 
because  I  played  a  weak  game.  You  want  a  conqueror 
and  I  have  always  been  a  suppliant.  Now  I  have 
changed  my  method." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Juanita  faintly.  For  just  an  instant  she 
felt  a  leap  at  her  heart.  Perhaps  after  all  he  had 


214-  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

grown  to  her  standard.  That  was  how  she  must  be 
won,  if  ever  won,  and  she  wanted  to  be  won. 

She  saw  him  draw  out  of  his  pocket  a  small  box  and 
take  from  it  a  ring  which  she  had  once  worn,  but  again 
she  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  yet,  dear,"  she  said  very  softly,  "  you  haven't 
proven  yourself  a  conqueror  yet,  you  know.  You've 
just  called  yourself  one." 

Then  her  heart  misgave  her,  for  after  gazing  into 
her  eyes  with  a  hurt  look,  the  man  masked  his  disap- 
pointment behind  a  smile  of  deference  and  said,  "  Very 
well,  I  can  wait,  but  that's  how  it  must  be  in  the  end." 

In  the  end !  Juanita  knew  that  after  all  he  had  not 
changed. 

He  was  still  the  man  of  brave  intents  and  words  — 
still  the  man  who  stood  hesitant  at  the  moment  for  a 
blow. 

It  was  while  Malcolm  was  Juanita's  guest  that  Anse 
Havey  broke  his  resolve  and,  for  the  first  time,  came 
through  the  gate  of  the  school.  She  saw  him  come  with 
a  pleased  little  sense  of  having  broken  down  his  reserve, 
and  a  mild  triumph  of  feminine  victory. 

It  was  a  brilliant  night  in  early  November  with  a 
moon  that  had  lured  the  girl  and  her  guest  out  on  the 
cold  porch.  The  hills  stood  up  like  everlasting  thrones 
through  the  glitter  of  moon  and  stars  and  frost  and 
both  of  them  were  silent,  both  steeped  in  the  wizardry 
of  the  night  and  the  sense  of  mountain  mystery.  Sud- 
denly the  girl  heard  a  familiar  voice  calling  from  the 
road. 

"  Can  I  come  in  ?     It's  Anse  Havey." 

A  moment  later  the  mountaineer  was  standing  on  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  215 

steps  and  shaking  hands  with  Roger  Malcolm,  whom 
he  greeted  briefly  and  with  mountain  reserve. 

"  I've  heard  of  you,  Mr.  Havey,"  said  the  man  from 
Philadelphia,  and  the  man  of  the  hills  only  met  the 
other's  gaze  and  turned  to  Juanita. 

"  I  was  down  at  Peril  with  a  couple  of  teams,"  he 
said,  "  an'  I  found  a  lot  of  boxes  at  the  station  for  ye. 
I  'lowed  ye  didn't  hardly  have  any  teams  handy,  so  I 
fotched  'em  back  to  my  house.  I'll  send  them  over  in 
the  mornin',  but  I  thought  I'd  ride  over  to-night  an' 
tell  ye." 

She  had  been  wondering  how,  at  a  time  of  mired 
roads,  she  was  to  have  those  books,  which  she  would 
soon  need,  brought  across  the  ridge.  Now  he  had 
solved  the  problem  for  her.  Anse  Havey  stood  leaning 
against  a  porch  post,  with  his  broad  shoulders  and 
clear-cut  profile  etched  against  the  moonlight  as  he 
studied  the  Philadelphian.  Suddenly  he  asked  ab- 
ruptly : 

"  Have  ye  found  anything  that  interests  ye  in  the 
coal  an*  timber  line  ?  " 

Roger  Malcolm  glanced  up  and  knocked  the  ash  from 
his  pipe  against  the  rail  of  the  porch.  He  had  not 
suspected  that  his  rambles  about  the  hills  with  a  set  of 
maps  and  a  geologist's  hammer  had  been  noted.  He 
had  not  even  mentioned  it  yet  to  Juanita  because  he 
hoped  to  surprise  her  with  the  record  of  his  activities 
when  he  had  accomplished  more. 

But  he  showed  no  surprise  as  he  answered  and  an- 
swered with  perfect  frankness,  "  Yes  and  no.  I  came 
primarily  to  see  how  Miss  Holland  was  progressing 
with  her  work.  It's  true  I  have  thought  something  of 


216  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

investing  in  mountain  resources,  but  that  lies  in  the 
future." 

Havey  nodded,  and  said  quietly,  "  I  hope  ye  decides 
to  invest  elsewhere." 

"  So  far  as  a  casual  inspection  shows,  this  country 
looks  pretty  good  to  me,"  said  Malcolm  easily.  "  I 
may  buy  here  —  provided,  of  course,  the  price  is  right." 

"  This  country's  mighty  pore,"  said  the  head  of  the 
Haveys  slowly.  "  About  all  it  can  raise  is  a  little  corn 
an'  a  heap  of  hell,  but  down  underneath  the  rocks 
there's  wealth." 

"  Then  the  man  who  can  unlock  the  hills  and  get  out 
that  wealth  and  make  it  available,  ought  to  be  welcomed 
as  a  benefactor,  ought  he  not?  "  inquired  the  Easterner 
with  a  smile. 

"  He  won't  be,"  was  the  short  response. 

"Why?" 

"  The  men  from  outside  always  aim  to  get  the  bene- 
fit of  that  wealth  an'  then  to  move  us  off  our  mountains 
an'  there  ain't  nowheres  else  on  earth  a  mountain  man 
can  live.  Developin'  seems  pretty  much  like  plunderm' 
to  us.  We  gen'rally  asks  benefactors  like  that  to  go 
away." 

"  And  do  they  usually  go  ?  " 

"  No,  not  usually.     They  always  goes." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that,  Mr.  Havey  ?  " 
queried  Malcolm,  still  smiling. 

"  I  don't  neither  ask  ye  to  believe  it  nor  to  disbelieve 
it,"  was  the  cool  rejoinder.  "  I'm  just  tellin'  it  to  ye, 
that's  all." 

Malcolm   refilled  his   pipe  and   offered   the   tobacco 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

pouch  to  Havey.  Anse  shook  his  head  with  a  curt 
"  Much  obleeged,"  and  the  visitor  commented  casually, 
"  Well,  we  needn't  have  any  argument  on  that  score 
yet,  Mr.  Havey.  My  activities,  if  they  eventuate,  be- 
long to  the  future  and  when  that  time  comes  perhaps  we 
shall  be  able  to  agree  after  all." 

"  I  reckon  we  won't  hardly  agree  on  no  proposition 
for  despoilin'  my  people,  Mr.  Malcolm." 

"  Then  we  can  disagree,  when  the  time  comes,"  re- 
marked the  other  man  with  a  trace  of  tartness  in  his 
voice.  "  There  is  no  need  of  it  as  yet." 

"  Then  ye  don't  aim  to  develop  us  just  now?  " 

Malcolm  shook  his  head,  the  glow  of  his  pipe  bowl 
for  a  moment  lighting  up  a  face  upon  which  lingered 
an  amused  smile.  "  Not  this  time.  Another  time  per- 
haps." 

"  All  right,  then."  Havey's  voice  carried  a  very 
masked  and  courteous,  but  very  unmistakable  warn- 
ing. "  Whenever  ye  get  good  an'  ready  —  we'll  argue 
that."  He  bowed  to  the  girl  and  turned  into  the  path 
which  led  down  to  the  gate. 

•         ••••••••• 

It  was  one  of  those  nights  under  whose  brooding 
wings  vague  influences  are  astir  and  in  the  making. 
Dawn  had  gone  back  for  a  few  days  to  her  brother's 
lonely  cabin  on  Tribulation  to  set  his  house  in  order 
and  look  after  his  simple  mending.  Perhaps  in  her 
own  heart  there  was  another  reason,  an  unconfessed  un- 
willingness to  stay  at  the  bungalow  while  she  must  feel 
so  far  away  from  Juanita,  and  see  Roger  Malcolm  seem- 
ing so  near.  In  her  heart  vague  things  were  stirring, 


218  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

too,  and  in  another  heart.  The  fact  that  she  had  not 
been  allowed  to  see  young  Milt  McBriar  had  given  him 
an  augmented  importance  which  had  kept  the  boy 
prominently  in  her  thoughts  despite  her  denunciations. 
Once  she  had  met  him  on  the  road  and  he  had  stopped 
her  to  say,  "  Dawn,  do  ye  know  why  I  don't  come  over 
thar  no  more  ?  " 

The  girl  had  only  nodded,  and  the  boy  went  on : 

"  Well,  some  day  when  ye're  at  Jeb's  cabin,  I'm 
a-comin'  thar.  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  come  slippin',  but 
I'm  comin'  open  an'  upstandin'  an'  Jeb  an'  me  are  goin' 
ter  talk  about  this  business." 

"  No !  No !  "  she  had  exclaimed,  genuinely  fright- 
ened and  in  a  voice  full  of  quick  dissent.  "  Ye  mustn't 
do  it,  Milt,  ye  mustn't.  Ef  ye  does  I  won't  see  ye." 

"  We'll  settle  that  when  I  gits  thar.  I  j  est  'lowed 
I'd  tell  ye,"  said  the  boy  stubbornly.  "  I  reckon  I 
mustn't  talk  ter  ye  now  —  I'm  pledged,"  and  without 
another  word  he  shook  up  the  reins  on  his  horse's  neck 
and  rode  away. 

So  to-night  while  the  moon  was  weaving  its  spell  over 
several  hearts,  the  son  of  the  McBriar  leader  was  riding 
with  a  set  face  over  into  the  heart  of  the  Havey  coun- 
try, to  openly  visit  the  daughter  of  Fletch  McNash. 

Jeb  was  sitting  before  the  fire  in  his  cabin  with  a  pipe 
between  his  teeth,  and  Dawn  was  idly  plunking  on  a 
banjo  —  not  the  old  folk-lore  tune  that  had  once  been 
her  repertoire,  but  a  newer  and  sweeter  thing  that  she 
had  learned  from  Juanita  Holland. 

Then  as  a  confident  voice  sang  out,  from  the  dark- 
ness, "  I'm  Milt  McBriar  an'  I'm  a-comin'  in,"  the 
banjo  fell  from  the  girl's  hands  and  her  fingers  clutched 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  219 

in  panic  at  her  breast.  She  saw  her  brother  rise  in 
angry  astonishment  from  his  chair,  and  heard  his  voice 
demand  truculently,  "  What  ther  hell  does  you  want 
hyar?" 


CHAPTER  XXHI 

THOUGH  Anse  Havey  strode  up  the  steep  trail  to 
the  crest  that  night  with  long  elastic  strides, 
seeking  to  burn  up  the  restlessness  which  ob- 
sessed him,  he  found  himself  at  the  top  with  no  wish 
for  sleep,  and  no  patience  with  the  idea  of  confining  his 
thoughts  between  walls.  It  was  better  out  here  un- 
der the  setting  moon  and  the  twinkling  stars,  even 
though  he  wore  no  overcoat  and  rims  of  ice  were  form- 
ing along  the  edges  of  the  water  courses. 

His  mind  traveled  back  in  review  over  the  past  — 
a  past  that  had  never  been  lighted  with  cheer  or  happi- 
ness. His  whole  life  heretofore  had  sought  satisfac- 
tion in  a  fierce  devotion  to  one  passionate  ideal  —  his 
people.  It  had  been  a  sum  of  stern  days  and  not  since 
his  mother  had  told  him  Indian  stories  under  this  same 
tree  did  he  remember  a  single  clear  note  of  tenderness 
or  sweetness  in  its  tune  or  tenor. 

Down  in  Frankfort  he  had  walked  silently  with  his 
chin  in  the  air  and  a  challenge  in  his  eye.  About  him 
had  been  the  suave  and  tricky  politicians  of  the  cities 
and  the  high-headed,  aristocratic  sons  of  the  Bluegrass, 
and  there  among  them,  but  not  of  them,  he  had  felt  like 
a  poor  boy  at  a  frolic.  His  assumption  of  arrogant 
aggressiveness  had  really  been  only  a  mask  for  a  pain- 
ful diffidence,  so  that  if  any  lip  felt  an  inclination  to 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  221 

curl  at  this  tall  saturnine  law-maker  from  the  far  hills, 
no  lip  gave  expression  to  the  impulse. 

He  had  stood  apart  at  the  Inaugural  Ball,  looking  out 
on  the  flash  and  color  of  the  evening  dress  and  the  uni- 
formed staff  with  a  feeling  of  contempt.  A  beautiful 
woman  with  pearls  sparkling  softly  on  her  neck  had 
whispered  to  her  escort  as  they  passed  him,  "  What 
a  splendid  savage !  He  looks  like  a  wild  chief  at  a  dur- 
bar." 

But  to-night  Anse  Havey  felt  that  something  was 
missing  from  his  life;  something  of  the  barbarian  or- 
der had  become  suddenly  hateful  to  him.  Into  the  gray 
eyes  crept  a  dumb  suffering  and  the  brows  came  to- 
gether in  helpless  perplexity. 

Juanita  was  a  woman  of  an  exotic  race  who  chose  to 
think  that  life  comes  to  perfection  only  under  glass. 
He  was  a  leader  of  a  briar-tangled  and  shaggy  clan ; 
men  who  were  akin  to  the  eagles.  No  menace  or  threat 
of  death  had  ever  made  him  deviate  from  his  loyalty  to 
that  people.  But  now  a  foreign  woman  had  come  and 
he  was  comparing  himself  with  the  well-dressed,  soft- 
voiced  man  who  was  her  visitor,  and  feeling  himself  a 
creature  of  repellant  uncouthness.  He  found  himself 
wishing  that  he,  too,  was  smoother.  Then  he  flung  the 
thought  from  him  with  bitter  self-contempt  and  a  low 
oath  broke  from  his  lips.  Was  he  growing  ashamed  of 
his  life?  Was  he  wishing  that  his  eagle's  talons  might 
be  manicured  and  his  pinions  combed?  "  If  ye've  done 
come  down  to  that,  Anse  Havey,"  he  said  aloud,  "  it's 
about  time  ye  kilt  yourself." 

No,  he  protested  to  his  soul,  he  had  disliked  Roger 
Malcolm  because  Roger  Malcolm  had  spoken  of  a  proj- 


222  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

ect  of  plunder,  and  stood  for  his  enemies  of  the  future, 
but  his  soul  answered  that  he  thought  little  of  that,  and 
that  it  was  because  of  the  obvious  understanding  be- 
tween the  man  and  Juanita  Holland  that  a  new  hatred 
had  been  born  in  his  heart. 

After  Anse  had  gone  Malcolm  and  the  girl  turned 
back  to  the  fire-lit  hall  and  sat  a  while  in  silence.  When 
from  her  lips  came  something  very  like  a  sigh,  Roger 
took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  with  a  quick  instinctive 
movement. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  "  he  whispered,  as  he  bent  for- 
ward closer  to  her,  longing  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  "  she  inquired  with  a  note 
of  reproach,  "  that  aside  from  seeing  me,  you  had  an- 
other mission  here?  " 

"  The  other  mission  was  nothing,"  he  declared.  "  I 
came  to  see  you.  I  didn't  tell  you  that  I  was  also  rep- 
resenting an  Eastern  Syndicate  because  I  wanted  first 
to  form  a  more  definite  opinion.  I  thought  you'd  be 
pleased.  You  came  down  here,  against  all  my  protesta- 
tions, with  one  idea  in  your  dear  head.  You  were  bent 
on  development  in  a  country  that  has  stood  still  for 
two  centuries.  You  are  spending  the  best  of  your 
youth  and  enthusiasm  and  vitality  in  that  effort." 

He  broke  off  and  his  eyes  told  her  how  he  wanted  to 
see  her  spend  her  youth  and  enthusiasm  and  vitality, 
but  she  met  his  gaze  with  troubled  eyes  and  said  only: 
"Well?" 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  work  to  the  same  end ;  to  be,  in 
a  fashion,  your  partner  in  endeavor.  Don't  you  know 
that  before  civilization  can  go  into  any  place  where  it 
has  not  been,  it  must  have  roads  over  which  to  go? 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  223 

Civilization  has  only  one  great  agency  —  highways. 
The  Roman  ditch  and  wall  have  long  ago  crumbled, 
but  the  Roman  roads  are  still  her  monuments.  That 
was  my  ambition.  I  should  be  a  road-builder  doing  a 
man's  work  and  doing  it  at  your  side." 

"  It  seems,"  she  said  a  little  wearily,  "  that  we  can't 
even  understand  each  other  without  explanations.  I 
have  no  right  of  course  to  argue  with  you  against  the 
profitable  investment  of  your  money,  but  don't  let's 
call  it  by  glittering  and  misleading  names." 

Roger  Malcolm  stiffened  and  his  voice  was  aggrieved. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand you,  either.  I  spoke  sincerely." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  be  nasty-tempered  and  unsym- 
pathetic — "  she  assured  him  in  a  softer  voice.  "  I 
had  the  same  ideas  a  year  ago.  I  believed  in  civilizing 
people  by  force,  too  —  then.  But  I  don't  now.  I 
know  that  out  of  all  this  the  native  men  and  women  will 
reap  no  benefit  —  that  they  will  be  nothing  better  than 
evicted  creatures.  And  you  see,  Roger — "  her  voice 
became  tender — "  it's  not  just  the  rocks  and  fagots  of 
the  eagle's  eyrie  that  I'm  interested  in;  it's  the  old 
eagles  and  the  little  fledgling  eagles  themselves." 

"  My  plan  looks  to  the  building  a  nobler  and  more 
symmetrical  structure  on  the  site  of  that  pile  of  fagots," 
he  argued ;  "  a  structure  that  shall  endure." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head.  "  Some  cen- 
turies hence  the  world  will  see  only  that,  and  praise 
you.  But  I'm  thinking  of  this  century,  Roger  dear. 
Your  structure  must  rise  on  ruins  and  the  ashes  of  con- 
quest. Your  march  of  civilization  must  be  predatory, 
as  such  marches  always  have  been.  It  will  mean  driv- 


224  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

ing  people  who  can  only  be  led.  What  manner  of  men 
will  come  at  your  front  ?  " 

"  Decent  young  chaps  with  transit  and  chain,"  he 
assured  her.  "  The  sort  of  fellows  who  are  always  at 
the  front  of  marching  progress ;  the  sort  of  men  who 
do  the  world's  work." 

"  You  forget  the  men  that  go  ahead  of  them ;  the 
real  vanguard,"  she  retorted.  "  They  are  purchasable 
natives ;  hangers-on  at  the  dirty  fringe  of  things ;  the 
native  shyster  will  be  fighting  your  battles  in  Court ; 
the  native  assassin  who  does  not  kill  from  distorted 
sense  of  honor,  but  for  the  foreign  dollar,  will  be  dis- 
posing of  enemies  whom  your  shysters  can't  handle.'* 

"  Surely,"  said  the  man,  "  you  don't  think  I'd  coun- 
tenance such  damnable  methods  as  that  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  "  you'll  just  light  a 
fire  that  you  can't  control,  that's  all." 

"  If  you  feel  that  way,  I'll  draw  out  of  it,"  he  has- 
tened to  assure  her. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  she  answered,  "  it's  too  late.  You 
must  report  back  to  your  colleagues.  Perhaps  you'd 
better  stay  in,  and  try  to  control  them." 


At  the  scant  welcome  of  his  greeting,  young  Milt 
McBriar  stiffened  a  little  from  head  to  foot,  though  he 
had  not  anticipated  any  great  degree  of  cordiality. 

He  climbed  the  stile  and  walked  across  the  moonlit 
patch  of  trampled  clay  to  where  the  girl  stood,  weak- 
kneed  with  fright  in  the  lighted  frame  of  the  door. 

"  Jeb,"  he  said  slowly,  to  the  boy  who  ,had  stepped 
down  into  the  yard,  "how  air  ye?"  Then  turning 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  225 

to  Dawn,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he  greeted  her 
gravely. 

But  the  son  of  the  murdered  man  stood  very  still  and 
rigid  and  repeated  in  a  hard  voice,  "  What  ther  hell 
does  ye  want  hyar?  " 

"  I  come  over  hyar  ter  see  Dawn,"  was  the  calm  re- 
sponse and  then  as  the  girl  leaned  for  support  against 
the  dirty  frame,  convulsively  moistening  her  dry  lips 
with  her  tongue,  she  saw  her  brother's  hand  sweep  un- 
der his  coat  and  come  out  gripping  a  heavy  revolver. 
Jeb  had  never  gone  armed  before  that  night  when 
Fletch  fell.  Now  he  was  never  unarmed. 

"  Don't,  Jeb !  "  she  screamed  in  a  transport  of  alarm, 
as  she  braced  herself  and  summoned  strength  to  seize 
the  hand  that  held  the  weapon.  Jeb  shook  her  roughly 
off  and  wheeled  again  to  face  the  visitor,  with  the  pre- 
caution of  a  sidewise  leap.  He  had  expected  that  the 
other  boy  would  have  used  that  moment  of  interference 
to  draw  a  weapon,  but  the  young  McBriar  was  stand- 
ing in  the  same  attitude,  holding  his  hat  in  one  hand 
while  he  reassured  the  girl.  "  Don't  fret,  Dawn ;  thar 
hain't  nothin'  ter  worry  about,"  he  said  calmly.  Then, 
facing  the  brother,  he  went  on  in  a  voice  of  cold  and  al- 
most scornful  composure. 

"  Thet  hain't  ther  first  time  ye've  seed  me  acrost  the 
sights  of  a  gun,  is  it,  Jeb?  " 

"  What  does  ye  mean  by  thet  ?  "  The  other  boy's 
face  went  brick  red,  and  he  lowered  his  muzzle  with  a 
sense  of  sudden  shame. 

"  Oh,  I  heered  about  how  old  Bob  McGreeger  told  ye  a 
passel  of  lies  about  me,  an'  how  ye  come  acrost  ther 
ridge  one  day.  I  reckon  I  kin  guess  the  rest." 


226  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  Well,  what  of  hit?  "  Jeb  stood  with  his  pistol  no\r 
hanging  at  his  side,  but  in  his  eyes  still  glowed  the  fire 
of  hatred. 

"  Jest  this,"  young  McBriar  went  on.  "  I  ain't  got  no 
gun  on  me.  I  ain't  even  got  a  jack-knife.  I  'lowed 
that  ye  mout  be  right-smart  incensed  at  my  comin'  hyar 
an*  I  come  without  no  weapon  on  purpose.  Ef  ye 
hain't  skeered  of  me  when  I'm  unarmed,  I  reckon  ye  kin 
put  yore  own  gun  back  in  ther  holster." 

Jeb  McNash  slowly  followed  the  suggestion,  and  then, 
coming  forward  until  the  two  boys  stood  eye  to  eye,  he 
said  in  deliberate  accents,  "  I  reckon  ye  don't  'low  I'm 
skeered  of  ye." 

"  I  reckon  not."  Young  Milt's  tone  was  almost 
cheerful.  "  I  reckon  ye  air  j  est  about  as  much  skeered 
of  me  es  I  am  of  you  —  an'  that  ain't  none." 

"What  does  ye  want  hyar?"  persisted  Jeb. 

"  I  wants  first  to  tell  ye  —  an'  I  hain't  never  lied  ter 
no  feller  yit  —  thet  I  don't  know  nothin'  more  about 
who  kilt  Fletch  then  you  does.  If  I  did,  so  help  me 
God  Almighty,  I'd  tell  ye.  I  hain't  tryin'  ter  shield 
no  murderers."  There  was  a  ring  of  sincerity  in  the 
lad's  voice  that  carried  weight  even  into  the  bitter  scep- 
ticism of  Jeb's  heart,  a  scepticism  which  had  refused 
to  believe  that  honor  or  truth  dwelt  east  of  the  ridge. 

"  I  reckon,  ef  that's  true,"  sneered  the  older  boy, 
"  thar's  them  in  yore  house  thet  does  know." 

At  that  insult  it  was  young  Milt  whose  face  went 
first  brick  red,  and  then  very  white. 

"  Thet  slur  calls  fer  a  fight,  Jeb,"  he  said,  with  forced 
calm.  "  I  can't  hearken  ter  things  like  thet  about  my 
folks.  But  first  I  wants  ter  say  this :  I  come  over 


"Don't  fret  Dawn;  thar  hain't  nothin'  ter  worry  about,"  he  said  calmly. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  227 

hyar  ter  tell  ye  thet  I  knowed  how  ye  felt,  an'  thet  I 
didn't  see  no  reason  why  you  an'  me  hed  ter  quarrel.  I 
come  over  hyar  ter  see  Dawn,  because  I  promised  I 
wouldn't  try  ter  see  her  whilst  she  stayed  down  thar  at 
the  school  —  an'  because  I  wants  ter  see  her  —  an'  I 
'lows  ter  do  hit.  Will  ye  lay  aside  yore  gun  an'  go 
out  thar  in  ther  road  whar  hit  hain't  on  yore  own 
ground,  an'  let  me  tell  ye  thet  ye  lied,  when  ye  slurred 
my  folks  ?  " 

The  two  boys  stripped  off  their  coats,  in  guarantee 
that  neither  had  hidden  a  weapon.  Then  while  the  girl 
who  was  really  no  longer  a  girl,  turned  back  into  the 
fire-lit  cabin  and  threw  herself  face  downward  on  her 
feather  bed  they  silently  crossed  the  stile  into  the  road, 
and  Milt  turned  to  repeat,  "  Jeb,  thet  war  a  lie  ye 
spoke,  an'  I  wants  ye  ter  fight  me  fa'r,  fist  an'  skull, 
an'  when  we  gits  through  ef  ye  feels  like  hit  we'll  shake 
hands.  You  an'  me  ain't  got  no  cause  ter  quarrel  — 
barrin'  what  ye  jest  said  an'  we're  goin'  ter  settle  thet 
right  now." 

And  so  the  boy  in  each  of  them  which  was  the  manlier 
part  of  each,  came  to  the  surface,  and  through  a  bitter 
and  long-fought  battle  of  fists  and  wrestling,  in  which 
both  of  them  rolled  in  the  dust,  and  each  of  them  ob- 
stinately refused  to  say  "  enough,"  they  submitted  their 
long-fostered  hostility  to  one  fierce  debate.  At  last  as 
the  two  of  them  sat  panting  and  bloodied  there  in  the 
road  it  was  Jeb  who  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  So  fur  es  the  two  of  us  goes,  Milt,"  he  said,  "  un- 
less ther  war  busts  loose  argin  I  reckon  we  kin  be 
friendly." 

Together  they  rose  and  recrossed  the  stile  and  washed 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

their  grimed  faces  in  the  same  tin  pan  by  the  door. 
Dawn  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  Jeb  said  in  his 
capacity  as  host,  "  Milt,  set  yoreself  a  cheer.  I  reckon 
ye'd  better  stay  all  night.  Hit's  most  too  fur  ter  ride 
back  ter  yore  own  house." 

And  so,  though  they  did  not  realize  it,  the  two  youths 
who  were  to  stand  some  day  near  the  heads  of  the  two 
factions,  had  set  a  new  precedent  and  had  fought  with- 
out guns,  as  men  had  fought  before  the  feud  began. 

Jeb  kicked  off  his  shoes  and  "  lay  down  "  and  before 
the  flaming  logs  sat  the  Havey  girl  and  the  McBriar 
boy,  talking  low-voiced  and  long  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WHEN  winter  has  come  and  settled  down  for  its 
long  siege  in  the  Cumberlands,  human  life 
shrinks  and  shrivels  into  a  shivering  wretched- 
ness and  a  spirit  of  dreariness  steals  into  the  human 
heart. 

The  gaunt,  gray  hills  reek  and  loom,  sticky  and  de- 
formed, between  the  snows  and  thaws.  Roads  become 
impassable  mires  and  the  total  quarantine  has  begun. 
In  dark  cabins  hearts  given  to  brooding  do  little  else 
but  brood  and  Nature  herself  has  no  clarion  of  outer 
cheer  with  which  to  break  the  dangerous  soul-cramping 
monotony. 

The  house  of  Old  Milt  McBriar  was  not  so  dark  and 
cheerless  a  hovel  as  the  houses  of  his  lesser  neighbors, 
but  as  that  winter  closed  in,  his  heart  was  very  bitter 
and  his  thoughts  very  black.  In  a  round-about  way  he 
had  learned  of  Young  Milt's  visit  to  the  McNash  cabin. 
His  son  was  the  apple  of  his  eye  and  now  he  was  see- 
ing him  form  embryonic  affiliations  with  the  people  of 
his  enemy.  Young  Milt  had  visited  Dawn ;  he  had 
watched  with  Anse  Havey.  The  father  had  always 
taken  a  natural  pride  in  the  honesty  that  gleamed  from 
his  son's  alert  eyes,  and  the  one  person  from  whom  he 
had  concealed  his  own  ways  of  guile  and  deceit  most  stu- 
diously was  the  lad  who  would  some  day  be  leader  in 

his   stead.     There  were  few  things   that   this   old  in- 

229 


230  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

triguer  feared,  but  one  there  was,  and  now  it  was  trac- 
ing lines  of  care  and  anxiety  in  the  visage  that  had 
always  been  so  mask-like  and  imperturbable.  If  his 
son  should  ever  look  past  his  outward  self  and  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  inner  man,  the  father  knew  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  sustain  the  scorn  of  those  younger  eyes. 
So  while  the  lad,  who  had  gone  back  to  college  in  Lex- 
ington, conned  his  books,  his  father  sat  before  the  blaze 
of  his  hearth,  with  his  pipe  tight-clamped  between  his 
teeth  and  his  heart  festering  in  his  breast  and  his  mind 
dangerously  active. 

The  beginnings  of  all  the  things  which  he  deplored, 
and  meant  to  punish,  went  back  to  the  establishment  of 
a  school  with  a  "  fotched-on "  teacher.  Had  Dawn 
McNash  not  come  there  his  boy's  feet  would  not  have 
gone  wandering  westward  over  the  ridge,  straying  out 
of  partisan  paths.  The  slimness  of  her  body,  the  lure 
of  her  violet  eyes  and  the  dusky  meshes  of  her  dark  hair 
had  led  his  own  son  to  guard  the  roof  that  sheltered  her 
against  the  hand  of  arson  that  the  father  had  hired. 

But  most  of  all  Anse  Havey  was  responsible  —  Anse 
Havey  who  had  persuaded  his  son  to  make  common 
cause  with  his  enemy.  For  that  Anse  Havey  must  die. 

Heretofore  Old  Milt  had  struck  only  at  lesser  men, 
fearing  the  retribution  of  too  audacious  a  crime,  but 
now  his  venom  was  acute  and  even  such  grave  consid- 
erations as  the  danger  of  a  holocaust  must  not  halt  its 
appeasement. 

Still  the  mind  of  Milt  McBriar,  the  elder,  had  worked 
long  in  intrigue  and  even  now  it  could  not  follow  a  direct 
line.  Bad  Anse  must  not  be  shot  down  in  the  road. 
His  taking-off  must  be  accomplished  by  a  shrewder 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  231 

method  and  one  not  directly  traceable  to  so  palpable  a 
motive  as  his  own  hatred.  Such  a  plan  his  brain  was 
working  out,  but  for  its  execution  he  needed  a  hand  of 
craft  and  force  —  such  a  hand  as  only  Luke  Thixton 
could  supply  —  and  Luke  was  out  West. 

It  was  not  his  intention  to  rush  hastily  into  action. 
Some  day  he  would  go  down  to  Lexington  and  Luke 
should  come  East  to  meet  him.  There,  a  hundred  and 
thirty  miles  from  the  hills,  the  two  of  them  would  ar- 
range matters  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

Roger  Malcolm  had  gone  back  East  and  he  had  not 
after  all  gone  back  with  a  conqueror's  triumph.  He 
was  now  discussing  in  directors'  meetings  plans  look- 
ing to  a  titanic  grouping  of  interests  which  were  to 
focalize  on  these  hills  and  later  to  bring  developments. 
The  girl's  school  was  gradually  making  itself  felt  and 
each  day  saw  small  classes  at  the  desk  and  blackboards ; 
small  classes  that  were  growing  larger. 

Now  that  Milt  had  laid  the  ground  work  of  his  plans 
he  was  making  the  field  fallow  by  a  seeming  of  general 
beneficence.  His  word  had  gone  out  along  the  creeks 
and  branches  and  into  the  remote  coves  of  his  territory 
that  it  "  wouldn't  hurt  folks  none  ter  give  their  children 
a  little  1'arnin'." 

In  response  to  that  hint  they  trooped  in  from  the 
east  wherever  the  roads  could  be  traveled.  Among 
those  who  "  hitched  an'  lighted  "  at  the  fence  were  not 
only  parents  who  brought  their  children,  but  those  who 
came  impelled  by  that  curiosity  which  lurks  in  lonely 
lives.  There  were  men  in  jeans  and  hickory  shirts; 
women  in  gay  shawls  and  linsey  woolsey  and  calico; 
people  from  "  back  of  beyond,"  and  the  girl  felt  her 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

heart  beat  faster,  with  the  hope  of  ultimate  and  worthy 
success. 

"  I  hear  ye've  got  a  right-plentiful  gatherin'  of 
young  barbarians  over  there  at  the  college  these  days," 
said  Anse  Havey  one  afternoon  when  they  met  up  on 
the  ridge.  Her  chin  came  up  pridefully  and  her  eyes 
sparkled. 

"  It  has  been  wonderful,"  she  told  him.  "  Only  one 
thing  has  marred  it." 

"What's  that?"  he  asked. 

"  Your  aloofness.  Just  because  I'm  going  to  smash 
your  wicked  regime,"  she  laughed,  "  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  remain  peeved  about  it  and  sulk  in  your 
tent." 

He  shook  his  head  and  gazed  away.  Into  his  eyes 
oame  that  troubled  look  which  nowadays  they  sometimes 
wore. 

"  I  reckon  it  wouldn't  hardly  be  honest  for  me 
to  come.  I've  told  ye,  I  don't  think  the  thing  will  do 
no  good."  He  was  looking  at  her  and  his  hands  slowly 
clenched.  Her  beauty,  with  the  enthusiasm  lighting 
her  eyes,  made  him  feel  like  a  man  whose  thirst  was 
killing  him,  and  who  gazed  at  a  clear  spring  beyond 
his  reach  —  or  like  the  caravan  driver  whose  sight  is 
tortured  by  a  mirage.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  then 
added,  "  I've  got  another  reason  an'  a  stronger  one  for 
not  comin'  over  there  very  often.  Any  time  ye  wants 
me  for  anything  I  reckon  ye  knows  ye  can  call  on  me." 

"  What  is  your  reason?  "  she  demanded. 

"  I  ain't  never  been  much  interested  in  any  woman." 
He  held  her  eyes  so  directly  that  she  felt  a  warm  color 
suddenly  flooding  her  cheeks,  then  he  went  on  with 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  255 

naked  honesty  and  an  unconcealed  bitterness  of  heart. 
"  When  I  puts  myself  in  the  way  of  havin'  to  love  one 
I'll  pick  a  woman  that  won't  have  to  be  ashamed  of 
me  —  some  mountain  woman." 

For  an  instant  she  stared  at  him  in  astonishment, 
then  she  exclaimed,  "  Ashamed  of  you !  I  don't  think 
any  woman  would  be  ashamed  of  you,  Mr.  Havey." 
But,  recognizing  that  her  voice  had  been  over-serious, 
she  laughed  and  once  more  her  eyes  danced  with  gay 
mischief. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  I'll  promise  not  to  make 
love  to  you." 

"  I'm  obleeged,"  he  said  slowly.  "  That  ain't  what 
I'm  skeered  of.  I'm  afraid  ye  couldn't  hardly  hinder 
me  from  makin'  love  to  you" 

He  paused  and  the  badinage  left  her  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Havey,"  she  said  with  great  seriousness, 
"  I'm  glad  you  said  that.  It  gives  us  a  chance  to  start 
honestly  as  all  true  friendship  should  start.  In  some 
things  any  woman  is  wiser  than  any  man.  You  won't 
fall  in  love  with  me.  You  thought  you  were  going  to 
hate  me,  but  you  don't." 

"  God  knows  I  don't !  "  he  fiercely  interrupted  her. 

She  laughed. 

"  Neither  will  you  fall  in  love  with  me.  You  told 
me  once  of  your  superior  age  and  wisdom,  but  in  some 
things  you  are  still  a  boy.  You  are  a  very  lonely  boy, 
too,  a  boy  with  a  heart  hungry  for  companionship. 
You  have  had  friends  only  in  books  —  comradeship 
only  in  dreams.  You  have  lived  down  there  in  that  old 
prison  of  a  house  with  a  sword  of  Damocles  hanging 
always  over  your  head.  Because  we  have  been  in  a  way 


234  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

congenial  you  are  mistaking  our  friendship  for  danger 
of  love." 

Danger  of  love!  He  knew  that  it  had  gone  past  a 
mere  danger  and  his  eyes  for  a  moment  must  have  shown 
that  he  realized  its  hopelessness,  but  Juanita  shook 
her  head  and  went  on. 

"  Don't  do  it.  It  would  be  a  pity.  I'm  rather 
hungry,  too,  for  a  friend.  I  don't  mean  for  a  friend  in 
my  work,  but  a  friend  in  my  life.  Can't  we  be  friends 
like  that?" 

She  stood  looking  into  his  eyes  and  slowly  the  drawn 
look  of  gravity  left  his  face. 

He  had  always  thought  quickly  and  dared  to  face 
realities.  He  was  now  facing  his  hardest  reality.  He 
loved  her  with  utter  hopelessness.  Her  eyes  told  him 
that  it  must  always  be  just  that  way  and  yet  she  had 
appealed  to  him ;  she  had  said  she  needed  his  friendship. 
To  call  it  love  would  make  it  necessary  for  her  to  de- 
cline it.  Henceforth  life  for  Anse  Havey  was  to  mean 
a  heart-ache,  but  if  she  wanted  his  allegiance  she  might 
call  it  by  what  name  she  would.  It  was  hers. 

Swiftly  he  vowed  in  his  heart  to  set  a  seal  on  his  lips 
and  play  the  part  she  had  assigned  to  him.  He  would 
not  even  let  her  know  how  near  he  had  been  to  sweeping 
aside  falsehood  and  telling  her  that  for  him  to  come  to 
her  except  as  a  lover  would  be  to  come  under  false  pre- 
tenses. Instead  he  slowly  forced  a  smile,  a  boyish  smile 
as  though  all  his  fears  had  been  wiped  away,  and  the 
old  general  in  blue  and  buff  could  not  have  lied  more 
with  the  gallantry  of  a  gentleman. 

"  I'm  right  glad  that  ye  said  that,"  he  assured  her. 
"  I  reckon  ye're  right.  I  reckon  we  can  go  on  fightin* 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  235 

and  bein*  friends.  Ye  see,  as  I  said,  I  didn't  know  much 
about  women  folks  an'  because  I  liked  ye  I  was  worried." 

She  nodded  understandingly. 

Suddenly  he  bent  forward  and  his  words  broke  im- 
petuously from  his  lips.  "  Do  ye  'low  to  marry  that 
man,  Malcolm?"  He  came  a  step  toward  her,  then 
raising  his  hand  swiftly,  before  she  could  respond, 
he  exclaimed,  "  No  —  don't  answer  that  question ! 
That's  your  business.  I  didn't  have  no  license  to  ask. 
Besides  I  don't  want  ye  to  answer  it." 

"  It's  a  bargain,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  smiled.  "  Whenever 
you  grow  lonely  over  there  by  yourself  and  find  that 
Hamlet  isn't  as  lively  a  companion  as  you  crave,  or  that 
Alexander  the  Great  is  a  little  too  fond  of  himself,  or 
Napoleon  is  too  moody,  come  over  to  my  house  and 
we'll  try  to  cheer  each  other  up." 

"  I  reckon,"  he  said  with  an  answering  smile,  "  I'm 
right  liable  to  feel  that  way  to-night,  but  I  ain't 
a-comin'  to  learn  civilization.  I'm  just  comin'  to  see 
you." 

On  a  ranch  out  West  Luke  Thixton  was  riding  range. 
While  his  pony  drifted  at  night  with  the  herds  under 
the  starry  sky,  he  fretted  bitterly  for  the  crags  and 
heights  of  his  home  and  cursed  the  eternal  flatness  of 
the  plains.  To  ride  all  day  on  an  unbroken  level  irked 
his  soul  until  it  grew  bitter  within  him,  and  he  waited 
with  feverish  impatience  for  the  letter  from  Milt  Mc- 
Briar  which  should  end  his  exile. 

Anse  Havey  knew  nothing  of  the  McBriar  plans,  but 
he  surmised  that  Milt  was  planning  a  coup.  He  needed 
no  revelation  to  divine  the  bitterness  rising1  out  of 


236  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

young  Milt's  fondness  for  Dawn.  That  was  a  thing 
that  was  in  embryo  now,  but  some  day  it  would  inev- 
itably grow  to  the  proportions  of  a  feud  problem. 
Against  that  day  of  crisis,  which  might  come  in  years 
or  might  come  to-morrow,  it  behooved  him  to  pre- 
pare .  .  .  and  he  was  preparing. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ONCE  when  Anse  Havey  had  been  tramping  all 
afternoon  through  the  wintry  woods  with 
Juanita,  he  had  pointed  out  a  squirrel  that  sat 
erect  on  a  branch  high  above  them  with  its  tail  curled 
up  behind  it.  He  had  stopped  her  with  a  touch  on  the 
arm  and  pointed,  then  with  a  smile  of  amusement  he 
handed  her  his  rifle.  He  handed  it  to  her  with  much 
the  same  manner  that  she  might  have  handed  him  a 
novel  in  Russian,  and  his  eyes  said  bantesingly,  "  See 
what  you  can  do  with  that" 

But  to  his  surprise  she  took  the  gun  from  his  hands 
and  leveled  it  as  one  accustomed  to  its  use.  Bad  Anse 
Havey  forgot  the  squirrel  and  saw  only  the  slim  figure 
in  its  loose  sweater,  only  the  stray  wisps  of  curling  hair 
and  the  softness  of  the  cheek  that  snuggled  against  the 
rifle  stock.  Then  came  the  report  and  the  squirrel 
dropped. 

She  turned  with  a  matter-of-fact  nod  and  handed 
back  the  gun.  "  I'm  rather  sorry  I  killed  it,"  she  said, 
"  but  you  looked  so  full  of  scorn  that  I  had  to  show 
you.  You  know  they  do  have  a  few  rifles  outside  the 
Cumberland  mountains." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  shoot?  "  he  demanded;  and 
she  answered,  casually, 

"  I  used  to  shoot  a  rifle  and  pistol,  too,  quite  a  good 

bit." 

SST 


238  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

He  took  the  gun  back  and  unconsciously  his  hand 
caressed  the  spot  where  her  cheek  had  lain  against  its 
lock.  He  had  fallen  into  revery  out  of  which  her  voice 
called  him.  They  had  crossed  the  ridge  itself  and  were 
overlooking  his  house.  "  Why  are  they  clearing  that 
space  behind  your  house?  Are  you  going  to  put  it  in 
corn?" 

"  Nq,"  he  laughed  shortly.  "  Corn  would  be  just 
about  as  bad  as  laurel." 

He  was  instantly  sorry  he  had  said  that.  He  had 
not  meant  to  tell  her  of  the  plans  he  was  making ;  plans 
of  defense  and,  if  need  be,  of  offense.  He  had  not  in- 
tended to  mention  his  precautions  to  prevent  assassina- 
tion at  his  own  door  or  window. 

But  the  girl  understood  and  her  voice  was  heavy  with 
anxiety  as  she  demanded,  "  Do  you  think  you're  in  dan- 
ger, Anse  ?  " 

"  There's  never  a  day  I'm  not  in  danger,"  he  re- 
plied in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  "  I've  gotten  pretty 
well  used  to  it." 

"  But  some  day,"  she  broke  out,  "  they'll  get  you." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.     "  Maybe,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  don't  you-  see  the  horrible  futility  of  all  this  ?  " 
she  protested,  her  cheeks  flushing  with  her  vehemence. 
"  Don't  you  see  that  it  all  ends  in  nothing  but  an  end- 
less chain  of  bloodshed  —  the  sacrifice  of  useful  lives  ?  " 

"  I've  seen  that  all  along."  His  voice  was  grave. 
"  What  I  don't  see  is  how  to  help  it." 

They  turned  and  walked  for  a  time  in  silence,  then 
she  heard  him  talking  and  his  fashion  of  speech  was 
that  of  pleading  from  a  bruised  heart. 

"  What  do  ye  reckon  I'm  gainin'  by  it  all  ?     Do  ye 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  £39 

'low  that  I  like  bein'  a  man  the  world  belittles  as  a 
blood-spiller?  Don't  ye  suppose  I'd  like  to  be  able  to 
raise  my  eyes  to  a  woman  like  you  without  lookin' 
acrost  a  space  I  can't  never  come  over?  My  God,  do 
ye  reckon  that's  pleasin'?  Every  time  I  starts  acrost 
there  to  see  ye  in  the  night-time  I  knows  that  maybe 
I  won't  get  there,  because  of  the  enemies  that's  plannin' 
in  the  blind  dark.  Do  ye  suppose  I  like  that  ?  —  I 
like  it  —  like  hell."  At  the  oath  which  had  come  quite 
unconsciously  from  his  lips  he  saw  Juanita  draw  away 
from  his  side  with  a  little  gesture  of  repulsion,  and  his 
own  features  stiffened.  "  I  asks  your  pardon,"  he 
said.  "  We  mountain  men  are  just  barbarians,  ye  know. 
Ye  can't  hardly  expect  much  of  us.  Nobody  didn't 
ever  teach  me  that  cussin'  was  impolite.  Ye  see  I 
ain't  learned  manners." 

"  It  isn't  because  it's  bad  manners,"  she  said  quietly, 
"  but  because  there  isn't  any  sense  in  your  making  a 
virtue  of  mountain  faults.  You  aren't  as  little  as 
that." 

"  I  asks  your  pardon,"  he  repeated  humbly.  "  If  ye 
don't  like  it,  that's  reason  enough  for  me,  I  reckon." 

"What  were  you  saying?"  she  prompted;  and  he 
went  on. 

"  Much  as  I  hates  the  McBriars  I  know  that  a  day's 
comin'  when  them  and  us  have  got  to  stand  together 
against  another  enemy." 

"What  enemy?"  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  only  know  he's  comin'.  Maybe  it'll 
be  your  friend,  Malcolm,  maybe  somebody  else.  But 
whoever  it  is  I  want  to  be  here  to  fight  him.  I'm  hopin' 
to  last  that  long." 


240  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

As  her  influence  grew  with  Bad  Anse  Havey,  so  it 
was  growing  at  the  school.  She  had  to  turn  away 
pupils  who  had  come  across  the  mountains  on  wearisome 
journeys  because  as  yet  she  had  only  limited  room  and 
no  teachers  save  herself  —  and  Dawn  to  help  her  with 
the  youngest. 

At  the  front  of  the  hall  which  led  into  the  main 
school  building  was  a  rack  with  notches  for  rifles  and 
pegs  for  pistols.  She  told  all  who  entered  that  she 
made  only  one  stipulation  and  that  was  that  whoever 
crossed  the  threshold  must  leave  his  armament  at  the 
door.  At  first  some  men  turned  away  again,  taking 
their  children  with  them,  but  as  time  went  on  they 
grudgingly  acquiesced  and  at  last  with  a  sense  of  great 
victory  she  persuaded  three  shaggy  fathers,  who  were 
coming  regularly  with  their  children,  to  ride  back  home 
unarmed. 

Disarmament  was  her  idea  for  the  great  solution  and 
when  Bad  Anse  came  over,  as  he  came  every  night  now, 
she  led  him  with  almost  breathless  eagerness  to  the  rack, 
and  showed  him  two  modern  rifles  and  one  antiquated 
squirrel  gun. 

"  What's  the  idea  ? "  he  asked  with  his  sceptical 
smile. 

He  found  it  very  difficult  to  listen  always  to  talk 
about  the  school  in  which  he  felt  no  interest  and  to  regard 
his  vow  of  silence  as  to  her  herself  whom  he  dumbly 
worshiped. 

"  Look  around  you,  Anse,"  she  commanded.  "  Do  you 
see  any  dirt  or  dust  anywhere?  No,  we  are  teaching 
cleanliness  and  sanitation,  but  there  is  just  one  place 
here  where  the  spiders  are  welcome  to  come  and  spin 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

their  webs  unmolested.  It's  that  rack  of  guns.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  the  shrine  at  Lourdes  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  not,"  he  confessed  uneasily.  Of  late  he 
had  become  a  little  ashamed  of  the  things  he  did  not 
know. 

"  Well,  this  is  going  to  be  like  it,  Anse.  It  is  told 
that  when  the  lame  and  halt  and  blind  came  to  Lourdes 
to  pray,  they  went  away  straight  and  strong  and  clear 
of  vision.  There  hang  at  the  shrine  there  numberless 
crutches  and  canes  and  bandages,  discarded  because 
the  men  who  limped  in  or  were  carried  there,  went  away 
needing  them  no  more.  Some  day  your  old  order  of 
crippled  things  here  in  the  mountains  is  going  straight 
and  strong,  and  these  guns  will  be  the  discarded 
crutches." 

He  looked  at  her  and  if  no  response  was  stirred  for 
her  prophecy,  at  least  he  could  not  contemplate,  with- 
out a  stirring  of  enthusiasm,  the  flushed  face  and  glow- 
ing eye  with  which  she  spoke.  It  was  all  worth  while  if 
it  could  bring  that  sparkle  of  delight  to  her  countenance. 

"  It's  right  pretty,  but  it  won't  hardly  work,"  he 
said.  "  These  men  will  leave  them  guns  just  so  long  as 
they  don't  need  'em.  I'm  glad  to  see  ye  pleased  —  but 
I  don't  want  to  see  ye  disappointed." 

"  We'll  see." 

"  It's  the  same  old  mistake,  ye're  makin',"  he  told 
her  as  they  sat  before  the  blaze  of  her  fire.  "  Ye're 
seekin'  to  grow  a  poplar  in  a  flower  pot.  You're  over- 
lookin'  the  fact  that  these  people  are  human." 

"  No,  I'm  insisting  that  they're  human.  I'm  trying 
to  give  them  human  privileges.  Sanitation  and  soap 
are  more  powerful  than  guns." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Dawn  passed  the  door  at  the  side,  pausing  to  nod  to 
Anse  Havey.  She  was  very  straight  with  her  head 
raised  and  her  delicate  features  thrown  into  relief  in  the 
firelight.  Her  carriage  was  as  free  and  graceful  as 
some  wild  thing's  which  is  young  and  instinct  with  the 
joy  of  living. 

"  Look  there,"  whispered  the  man,  leaning  forward. 
"  Have  you  got  girls  back  there  in  the  cities  straighter 
or  sweeter  than  her?  She's  one  of  my  people.  Is 
anything  the  matter  with  her?  Is  that  a  weed  or  a 
flower?  " 

"  She's  a  flower.  So  was  her  mother  once.  Do  you 
remember  the  old  woman  —  old  at  forty  —  inciting  her 
son  to  go  out  and  do  murder?  Shall  Dawn  come  to 
that,  too?  All  flowers  were  once  weeds,  and  without 
cultivation  all  flowers  will  be  weeds  again." 

He  sat  silent  and  the  girl  went  on. 

"  Look  at  yourself.  What  is  to  become  of  your 
splendid  heritage  of  body  and  brain  and  manhood? 
What  will  you  be  in  twenty  years,  if  they  let  you  live 
that  long?  You  will  have  left  nothing  but  courage. 

"  You  stand  for  the  law  of  the  wolf  pack,  and  the 
law  of  the  wolf  pack  is  that  when  a  younger  and 
stronger  rises,  you  must  go  down.  Why  should  you  be 
the  camp-follower  of  a  worn  out  idea?  Why  shouldn't 
you  be  captain  of  your  own  soul?  " 

He  rose  and  looked  down  on  her  with  a  face  suddenly 
drawn. 

"  Ye're  upsettin'  everything,"  he  said  almost  harshly. 
"  Ye're  upsettin'  me  as  well  as  the  rest." 

"  That,"  she  declared  with  a  note  of  triumph  in  her 
voice,  "  is  what  I  came  for.  Unrest  is  divine," 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  243 

Her  face  was  alight  with  the  pleasure  of  her  fancied 
triumph.  She  was  smiling  up  at  him  and  fondly  im- 
agining that  she  was  changing  him,  too,  bringing  out 
what  was  finest  in  him,  and  her  woman  nature  was  very 
happy.  He  said  nothing  as  his  hands  were  clamped 
behind  his  back  and  his  lips  set  against  the  flood  of 
words  which  surged  to  them  and  clamored  for  outlet. 
He  wanted  to  tell  her  of  the  wild  unrest  that  had  come 
into  his  soul,  which  had  carried  away  in  its  swirling 
torrent  the  wreckage  of  all  that  had  before  been  fixed 
and  constant.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  if  she  asked 
it,  he  would  lay  at  her  feet  the  ruins  of  his  own  deep 
loyalty  to  his  people,  and  that  for  that  weakness  he 
hated  himself  bitterly.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  his 
life  would  never  again  know  the  quiet  of  satisfaction  be- 
cause he  loved  a  woman  hopelessly,  and  since  she  chose 
to  take  him  as  a  concrete  example  in  her  arguments  he 
stood  for  a  man  as  dissatisfied  and  wretched  as  any  man 
could  be ;  a  man  whose  soul  was  crying  for  what  it  could 
never  have. 

But  she  chose  to  let  him  be  her  friend  —  and  noth- 
ing more  —  so  he  must  bite  back  those  words,  and 
finally  when  he  was  able  to  speak  again  he  only  re- 
peated after  her  in  a  low  voice,  "  Captain  of  my  own 
soul!" 

A  little  before  Christmas  old  Milt  McBriar  went  to 
Lexington,  and  there  he  met  a  heavily  bearded  man  in 
rough  clothes  who  had  arrived  that  morning  from  the 
West.  They  conferred  in  a  cheap  eating  house  which 
bears  a  ragged  and  unwholesome  appearance,  and  which 
is  kept  by  an  exile  from  the  mountains. 


244  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  Now,  tell  me,  Milt,"  suggested  Luke  Thixton 
briefly,  "  what  air  this  thing  ye  wants  me  ter  do.  I'm 
done  with  these  hyar  old  flat  lands  thet  they  talks  so 
much  erbout." 

But  Milt  McBriar*s  eyes  had  been  vacantly  watching 
the  door.  It  was  a  glass  door  with  its  lower  portion 
painted  red  and  bearing  in  black  letters  the  name  of 
the  proprietor. 

"  Damn ! "  he  exclaimed  violently,  but  under  his 
breath. 

"What's  bitin'  ye?"  asked  his  companion  as  he 
bolted  his  food. 

"  I  jest  seed  Breck  Havey  pass  by  that  door,"  en- 
lightened the  chief.  "  But  I  reckon  he  couldn't  hardly 
recognize  you  this  fur  back.  I  don't  want  no  word  of 
yore  comin'  ter  go  ahead  of  ye." 

"  What  is  it  I'm  a  goin'  back  ter  do  ?  "  insisted  the 
exile  doggedly. 

"  Oh,"  commented  Milt  McBriar,  "  we've  got  ter  talk 
thet  over  at  some  length.  Ye're  a-goin'  back  ter  git 
Anse  Havey,  but  ye  hain't  a-goin'  jest  yit." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

NATURE  is  a  profound  old  trickster,  versed  in 
every  nuance  of  deceit  with  her  children.  Say 
to  a  woman,  "Would  you  marry  this  man?" 
and  straightway  she  would  wither  you  with  her  scorn 
for  the  question. 

Yet  so  long  as  the  man  understands  that  she  is  en- 
throned and  pedestaled  and  that  he  looks  up  at  her 
from  the  sweating  hurly-burly  of  the  ground  level,  she 
will  consent  to  drift  into  dependence  on  his  companion- 
ship and  to  take  a  place  in  his  life  which  must  always  be 
a  void  without  her. 

As  regularly  as  the  sun  went  down  in  a  wintry  flare 
of  sullen  color  and  the  stars  came  out,  so  regularly  did 
Anse  Havey  set  his  face  across  the  ridge  at  nightfall 
to  sit  there  before  Juanita's  hearth  and  watch  the  car- 
mine and  lake  and  orange  flecks  that  played  on  her 
cheek  in  the  leaping  of  the  blaze.  She  thought  he  was 
interested  in  her  talk  and  arguments,  but  the  man  was 
really  hardly  conscious  of  them.  He  listened  to  her 
theories,  hearing  only  the  music  of  her  voice  and  fought 
with  her  over  abstract  philosophies  only  to  keep  her 
interested  so  that  he  might  watch  her  face  and  devour 
her  with  his  eyes.  Had  he  been  the  mastiff,  Danny,  ly- 
ing on  the  hearth-rug  and  gazing  up  at  her,  he  might 
have  been  equally  absorbed  in  her  mission.  He  would 

have  loved  her  perhaps  in  something  of  the  same  way, 

245 


246  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

except  that  the  dog  might  have  let  his  honest  eyes  speak 
for  him,  and  Anse  was  under  the  necessity  of  keeping  a 
screen  between  his  heart  and  his  pupils.  He,  too,  was  a 
great,  sinewy  creature  at  whose  growl  others  trembled, 
but  who  was  willing  for  this  woman  to  fetch  and  carry 
and  remain  mute.  The  arrogance  he  wielded  as  his 
right  became  humbleness  with  her,  because  she  held  over 
him  love's  tyranny  of  weakness  over  strength.  Some 
day,  he  told  himself,  the  control  he  had  set  on  himself 
would  slip  and  she  would  know  how  he  felt  —  and  then 
she  would  send  him  away.  But  as  yet  her  serene  eyes 
looked  at  him  across  the  hearth  where  she  had  grown 
accustomed  to  seeing  him,  with  no  suspicion  that  he 
was  a  man  with  a  tortured  and  aching  heart.  He  was 
a  welcome  fixture  there  and  the  affection  in  her  own  eyes 
was  as  little  like  the  passion  of  mating  love  as  it  might 
have  been  for  the  mastiff.  It  never  occurred  to  her 
that  she  was  putting  an  irremediable  crimp  into  the 
soul  of  a  man.  To  her  it  was  a  splendid  and  depend- 
able comradeship  and  only  that. 

Sometimes  she  was  the  girl  again  and  he  the  boy, 
and  they  laughed  and  were  drawn  closer  by  nonsensical 
things,  such  nonsensical  things  as  make  life  tolerable 
when  graver  matters  grow  burdensome.  But  always 
when  a  new  gun  came  to  her  rack  she  led  him  proudly 
to  see  it,  and  demanded  obeisance  from  him  as  a  conquer- 
ing princess  might  have  done.  With  the  mock  humility  of 
a  captive  in  the  arena,  the  man  would  bend  low  and 
say,  "  We  who  are  about  to  die  salute  thee ! "  But 
his  mocking  eyes  showed  no  apprehension.  He  did  not 
regret  her  success  —  could  not  regret  it  because  it 
was  hers. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  247 

But  little  Dawn,  who  at  first  had  been  accustomed  to 
staying  in  the  room  when  Anse  Havey  visited  it,  knew 
in  her  unfolding  woman's  heart  what  Juanita  herself 
did  not  know,  and  she  no  longer  remained  to  turn 
"  company  "  into  a  "  crowd." 

Soon  after  his  arrival  she  would  rise  and  slip  quietly 
out,  though  she  went  with  no  trace  of  the  sullen  jealousy 
she  had  felt  for  the  Eastern  man. 

"  Dawn,"  Juanita  asked  one  day,  "  why  don't  you 
sit  with  us  any  more  in  the  evenings?  Don't  you  like 
Mr.  Havey?" 

The  girl  looked  up  and  for  a  long  time  studied  the 
face  of  her  deity,  then  her  eyes  danced  and  her  face 
broke  into  a  smile. 

"  When  two  fellers  comes  to  a  cabin  sparkin'  the 
same  gal  on  the  same  night,"  she  said  with  unvarnished 
directness,  "  hit's  the  rule  hyarabouts  fer  'em  to  make 
her  say  which  one  she  wants  to  stay  —  an'  the  other  one 
goes  home.  I  reckon  it's  the  same  thing  with  gals  as 
with  men.  I  reckon  if  we  asked  Anse  Havey  which 
one  of  us  must  go  away  it  wouldn't  take  him  long  to 
make  up  his  mind." 

"  Dawn ! "  exclaimed  Juanita.  "  That's  absurd. 
Anse  Havey  doesn't  come  here  '  sparking,'  as  you  call 
it.  He  simply  comes  as  a  friend.  Why,  I  don't  think 
of  him  in  that  other  light  any  more  than  I  do  any  other 
mountain  man." 

Between  these  two  girls  there  had  never  been  a  note 
of  friction  or  any  lack  of  harmony,  yet  now  the  na- 
tive-born flushed  and  her  voice  held  a  hint  of  hard- 
ness. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Anse  Havey  ?     What's  the 


248  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

matter  with  mountain  men  ? "  she  demanded  quickly. 
"  Ain't  they  good  enough  ?  " 

"Good  enough?"  echoed  Juanita.  "Why,  dear,  if 
I  didn't  think  he  was  good  enough  I  wouldn't  let  him 
come  here.  But  friendship  is  one  thing  and  —  well, 
the  other  is  quite  different.  With  us  it's  just  friend- 
ship, and  nothing  can  be  better  than  true  friendship." 

Dawn  laughed  with  a  silvery  peal  that  carried  a  trace 
of  mockery  and  a  wisdom  that  belied  her  seeming  child- 
ishness. 

"  Sometimes  a  man  or  a  woman  is  the  only  person 
that  don't  know  what's  in  their  own  hearts,"  was  her 
cryptic  response. 

But  after  having  guarded  himself  all  evening,  and 
sometimss  after  having  forgotten,  in  the  pure  delight 
of  tho  present,  that  the  future  held  only  a  blind  alley 
for  his  life,  Anse  would  tramp  back  to  the  brick  house 
and  on  these  long  walks  he  would  taste  the  dregs  of 
the  wine  he  had  been  drinking.  Then  he  would  realize 
starkly  what  a  hopeless  love  means  and  would  think  of 
the  days  when  she  should  be  gone  until  he  sickened  at 
the  desolation  of  the  picture.  It  takes  the  plummet  of 
a  deep  pain  to  reveal  the  depths  of  one's  soul,  and  on 
these  homeward  journeys  Bad  Anse  Havey  was  sound- 
ing his  own. 

Sometimes  in  sheer  self-defense  against  the  misery 
of  such  thoughts  he  would  permit  himself  wild  dreams 
as  the  logs  died  to  embers  on  his  own  hearth,  but  always 
when  he  rose  at  dawn  and  looked  out  on  the  cold  mists 
of  the  gaunt  ridges  he  shook  his  head  and  set  his  teeth. 

"I  reckon  I  ain't  hardly  good  enough,"  he  would 
tell  himself  and  as  he  would  turn  back  to  the  dark  room 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  24-9 

with  an  almost  despairing  groan  in  his  throat,  his  out- 
stretched hands  would  seek  the  battered  copy  of 
Plutarch's  Lives  or  Shakespeare's  Tragedies.  In  a 
low  voice  he  would  confess  brokenly,  "  I  reckon,  old 
friends,  we'll  have  to  get  along  together  somehow.  I 
reckon  a  man's  just  got  ter  be  glad  when  he  can,  an' 
sad  when  he  must." 

For  her  part,  when  he  had  gone,  Juanita  would  sit 
alone,  studying  the  fire  with  her  brow  drawn  in  deep 
perplexity.  She  was  reflecting  on  what  Dawn  had  said. 

"  If  I  thought  he  misunderstood,"  she  would  tell  her- 
self, "  I  wouldn't  let  him  come.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to 
him.  That  sort  of  thing  between  us  would  be 
ridiculous ;  it  would  spoil  everything." 

Then  she  would  rise  and  shake  her  head  and  laugh. 

"  But  of  course  he  understands,"  she  assured  her- 
self. "  He  said  so  himself.  Dawn  is  only  an  ignorant 
child." 

Always  as  she  lay  down  in  her  bed  after  such  musings 
this  illogical  postcript  would  steal  into  her  thoughts. 

"  Besides,  I  can't  send  him  away.  I  can't  spare  him : 
the  loneliness  would  kill  me." 

One  morning,  as  Anse  sat  over  his  breakfast  at  the 
kitchen  table,  his  cousin,  Breck  Havey,  rode  up  in  hot 
haste  to  rouse  him  out  of  apathy  and  remind  him  that 
he  must  not  shirk  his  role  as  leader  of  the  clan. 

The  Havey  from  Peril  came  quickly  to  the  point 
while  the  Havey  of  the  backwoods  listened.  "  I  was 
down  ter  Lexin'ton  yesterday  an'  as  I  was  passin'  Jim 
Freeman's  dead-fall  I  happened  ter  look  in.  Thar  war 
old  Milt  McBriar  an'  Luke  Thixton  with  thar  heads 
as  clos't  tergether  as  a  pair  of  thieves.  Luke  hes  done 


250  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

come  back  from  the  West,  an'  I  reckon  ye  kin  figger  out 
what  thet  means." 

Anse  grew  suddenly  rigid  and  his  face  blackened. 
So  his  destiny  was  crowding  him. 

"What  air  ye  goin'  ter  do?"  demanded  Breck  with 
a  tone  of  anxious  and  impotent  pleading,  and  Anse 
Havey  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  know  —  quite  yet,"  he  said.  "  Let's  see, 
is  the  High  Co'te  in  session?  " 

Breck  Havey  nodded  his  head  in  perplexed  assent. 
He  wondered  what  the  Court  had  to  do  with  this  exi- 
gency. 

"  All  right.  Tell  Sidering  to  have  the  Grand  Jury 
indict  Luke  for  the  McNash  murder,  an'  Milt  McBriar 
as  accessory — " 

"  Good  God,  Anse ! "  burst  out  the  other  Havey. 
"  Does  ye  realize  what  hell  ye  turns  loose  when  ye  tries 
ter  drag  Old  Milt  ter  Co'te  in  Peril?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  that.  I'm  not  overlookin'  nothin'." 
The  answer  was  calm.  "  I'll  give  ye  a  list  of  witnesses. 
Tell  Sidering  to  keep  these  true  bills  secret.  I'll  ride 
over  an'  testify  myself,  an'  I'll  'tend  to  keepin'  the  wit- 
nesses quiet.  I  don't  know  whether  we'll  ever  try  these 
cases,  but  it's  just  as  well  to  be  ready  along  every  line  — 
and,  Breck,  don't  let  these  tidings  get  to  young  Jeb 
until  I  tell  him  myself." 

Breck  Havey  stood  gazing  down  at  the  hearth  with 
a  troubled  face.  At  last  he  hazarded  remonstrance. 

"  Anse,"  he  said,  "  I  hain't  never  questioned  ye.  I've 
always  took  yore  counsel.  Ye're  the  head  of  the 
Haveys,  but  next  to  you  I'm  the  man  they  harkens  to 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  251 

most.  If  any  man  has  got  ter  dispute  yer,  I  reckon 
ye'd  take  it  most  willin'ly  from  me." 

"What  is  it,  Breck?  I'm  plumb  willin'  to  listen  to 
your  counsel." 

"  Then  I'll  talk  outspoken.  Ter  try  ter  convict  these 
men  in  Co'te  means  to  take  a  desperate  chance.  Ye 
can't  hardly  succeed,  an'  if  ye  fails  ye've  lost  yore 
hold  on  the  Haveys  —  ye're  plumb,  eternally  done  for." 

"  I  don't  aim  to  fail." 

"  No ;  but  ye  mought.  Anse,  no  man  hain't  never 
questioned  yore  loyalty  till  now.  I  mought  as  well  tell 
ye  straight  what  talkin's  goin'  round." 

Anse  stiffened.     "What  is  it?"  he  demanded. 

"  Some  folks  'low  that  ther  Haveys  don't  mean  as 
much  ter  ye  now  as  ther  furrin'  school-teacher  does. 
Them  folks'll  be  pretty  apt  ter  think  ye  ain't  tryin' 
ter  please  them  so  much  as  her  —  if  ye  attempts  this." 

Anse  stood  for  a  long  minute  silent,  and  his  bronzed 
features  grew  taut.  At  last  he  inquired  coolly: 

"What  do  you  think,  Breck?" 

"  I'd  trust  ye  till  hell  froze." 

"All  right.  Then  do  as  I  tells  ye,  an'  if  I  fails  I 
reckons  you'll  be  head  of  the  Haveys  in  my  place." 

Down  at  the  school  there  was  going  to  be  a  Christ- 
mas tree  that  year.  Never  before  had  the  children 
of  the  branch-water  folk  heard  of  a  Christmas  tree. 
The  season  of  Christ's  birth  had  always  been  celebrated 
with  moonshine  jug  and  revolver.  It  was  dreaded  in 
advance  and  oftentimes  mourned  over  in  retrospect. 

Now    in    many    childish    hearts    large    dreams    were 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Krewing.  Eager  anticipations  awaited  the  marvel. 
The  honored  young  fir  tree  which  was  to  bear  a  fruit- 
age of  gifts  and  lights  had  been  singled  out  and  marked 
to  the  axe.  Anse  Havey  and  Juanita  had  explored 
the  woods  together,  bent  on  its  selection.  Perhaps 
Juanita  and  Dawn  were  as  much  excited  as  the  children, 
but  to  Dawn  it  meant  more  than  to  anyone  else.  She 
was  to  accompany  Juanita  to  Lexington  to  buy  gifts 
and  decorations,  and  would  have  her  first  wondrous 
glimpse  of  the  lights  and  crowds  of  a  city. 

Milt  was  there  at  college  and  would  be  returning 
about  the  same  time,  so  the  mountain  girl  secretly  wrote 
him  of  her  coming.  Now  even  facing  so  grave  a  crisis, 
Anse  Havey  thought  of  that  tree  and  hoped  that  Luke 
would  not  come  back  before  Christmas. 

That  night  while  he  was  sitting  with  Juanita  and  the 
fire  was  flashing  on  her  cheeks  from  the  logs  he  said 
moodily,  "  I'm  afraid  ye'll  have  to  start  despisin'  me 
all  over  again." 

She  looked  up  in  astonishment. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"  I've  got  to  kill  a  man,"  he  announced  briefly. 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  her  face  became  pallid. 

"  Kill  a  man,"  she  echoed. 

"  God  knows  I  hate  to  do  it."  He,  too,  rose  and 
stood  before  the  hearth.  "  But,  I  reckon  it  had  better 
be  me  than  Jeb." 

"  Do  you  mean  — "  she  broke  off  and  finished 
brokenly  — "  that  Fletch's  murderer  is  back  ?  " 

"  He's  comin*.  He's  comin'  to  kill  somebody 
else.  .  .  .  Most  likely  me.  It's  the  question  of 
choosin'  between  the  life  of  a  murderer  that  kilt  Fletch 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  253 

for  a  ticket  West  and  a  hundred  dollars  ...  or  lettin' 
young  Jeb  McNash  go  crazy  an'  startin'  the  feud  all 
over  again.  I  reckon  ye  sees  that  I  ain't  got  no  choice." 

She  came  nearer  and  stood  confronting  him  so  close 
that  her  low,  tense  voice  came  to  his  ears  from  a  dis- 
tance of  only  a  few  inches :  "  Suppose  he  kills  you  ?  " 

"  He'll  have  his  chance,"  said  Anse  Havey  shortly, 
"  I  ain't  'lowin'  to  shoot  him  down  from  ambush." 

The  girl  leaned  forward  and  clutched  his  hands  in 
both  her  own.  Under  the  tight  pressure  of  her  fingers 
he  felt  every  nerve  in  his  body  tingle  and  leap  into  a  hot 
ecstasy  of  emotion  while  his  face  became  white  and 
drawn. 

"  Don't  risk  your  life,  Anse,"  sJie  pleaded.  "  Your 
people  can't  spare  you,  I  can't  spare  you.  Not  now, 
Anse,  I  need  you  too  much." 

The  man's  response  came  in  a  hoarse  whisper  of 
eager  questioning. 

"  Ye  needs  me?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  swept  on,  and  for  an  instant  he  was 
on  the  verge  of  withdrawing  his  hands  and  crushing  her 
to  him,  but  something  in  his  face  had  warned  her.  .  .  . 
She  dropped  the  hands  she  had  been  holding  and  said 
in  an  altered  tone,  "  It's  not  just  me,  it's  bigger  than 
that.  It's  my  work.  We've  come  to  be  such  good 
friends  that  I  couldn't  go  on  without  you.  My  work 
would  fail." 

For  a  while  he  was  silent;  then  he  said  very  slowly 
and  very  bitterly,  "  Oh,  it's  just  your  work  that  needs 
me?" 

"  But,  Anse,"  she  argued,  "  my  work  is  all  that's 
biggest  and  best  in  me.  You  understand,  don't  you?  " 


254  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  hardly  know  whether 
I  understands  ye  or  not,"  he  said,  "  but  I'm  kinder 
afraid  I  do." 

He  had  been  so  close  to  the  brink;  had  fancied  for 
an  intoxicated  moment  that  he  saw  such  gates  of  Mira- 
cle opening,  that  now  he  felt  too  dead  to  argue.  He 
turned  away,  fearing  that  she  would  read  his  face. 

"  I  reckon,"  he  said  dully,  "  Luke  won't  hardly  kill 
me." 

Suddenly  an  idea  leaped  into  the  girl's  brain  and  she 
demanded,  "  Anse,  you  can  prove  this  man's  guilt,  can't 
you?  He  ought  to  die.  Civilization  would  be  as  in- 
flexible about  that  as  feud  vengeance.  Why  not  give 
him  a  legal  trial  ?  You  could  convict  him." 

Bad  Anse  Havey  smiled,  but  with  mirthless  irony. 

"  I  can  prove  it,  I  reckon,  to  the  satisfaction  of  a 
Jury  drawn  from  my  own  country,"  he  said,  "  takin' 
its  orders  from  me." 

"  Then,"  swept  on  the  girl,  "  why  not  do  that?  In- 
stead of  murder  that  would  be  justice.  Instead  of 
breaking  the  law  it  would  be  setting  a  precedent  for 
law." 

"  As  to  it's  bein'  murder,"  he  commented  drily,  "  I 
don't  see  much  difference  whether  I  shoot  him  down 
and  end  it,  or  whether  I  go  through  the  form  of  havin' 
twelve  men  sit  and  pretend  to  listen  to  evidence  an'  then 
hang  him." 

"  Try  it,"  she  pleaded.  "  Try  it  because  I  ask  you. 
You've  said  that  if  you  could  accomplish  the  same  ends 
lawfully,  you  would  rather  do  it.  Now  prove  it  to 
me." 

Anse  Havey  made  no  immediate  reply.     He  went  to 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  255 

the  door  and  opened  it  to  let  the  cold  air  blow  for  a 
time  on  his  face.  When  he  came  back  and  stood  be- 
fore her  his  features  were  all  set  and  mask-like  and  he 
spoke  with  a  voice  that  he  held  to  a  dead  level. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  do  what  ye  asks.  I've  done  took  steps 
to  that  end  already,  because  I  knew  ye  would  ask  it," 
he  said.  "  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  lie  about  it.  I  ain't 
doin*  it  from  no  motive  of  civilization.  It's  just  hy- 
pocrisy to  use  a  Court  of  law  like  you'd  use  a  gun. 
If  ye  can  delude  yourself  into  thinkin'  that  forms  of 
right  an'  wrong  make  right  an'  wrong  I  can't.  I'm 
doin'  it  just  because  ye  asks  it.  I  ain't  doin'  it  in  the 
interest  of  your  work  neither."  For  a  moment  the 
voice  got  away  from  him  and  rose  fiercely. 

"  I  don't  give  a  damn  for  your  work ! "  he  blazed 
out.  "  It's  you  I'm  interested  in.  That's  the  sort  of 
friend  I  am." 

She  looked  up  at  his  blazing  eyes,  a  little  amazed,  and 
he  went  on,  quietly  enough  now. 

"  If  I  fails  to  hang  Luke  Thixton,  I'll  be  right  now 
what  ye  prophesied  for  me  twenty  years  hence;  the 
leader  of  the  wolf  pack  that  goes  down  an'  gets  trampled 
on  an'  torn  to  pieces.  I  ain't  never  put  no  such  strain 
on  my  influence  as  this  is  goin'  to  be.  I've  got  to  hold 
back  the  Haveys  an'  the  McBriars  whilst  this  Court 
foolishness  dawdles  along,  an'  if  I  falls  down,  Jeb  is 
goin'  to  kill  Luke  anyway.  I'm  doin'  this  because  ye 
asks  it  an'  fer  that  reason  only,  an'  now  I'll  say  good- 
night to  ye." 

Juanita  Holland  stood  looking  at  the  door  he  had 
closed  behind  him,  a  wild  sense  of  tumult  and  uneasiness 
in  her  heart. 


256  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

" '  That's  the  sort  of  friend  I  am,' "  she  repeated  to 
herself. 

What  did  he  mean  ?  For  a  moment  she  wanted  to 
rush  out  and  call  him  back.  Was  Dawn  right,  after 
all,  and  had  he  trodden  underfoot  the  one  possible 
basis  of  safe  friendship  to  which  he  had  pledged  him- 
self? 

No,  she  argued  with  the  sophistry  of  refusing  to  be- 
lieve what  she  did  not  wish  to  believe,  it  was  simply  the 
old  clash  of  view-point  and  will  —  the  old  duel  of  per- 
sonalities, and  lay  quite  apart  from  any  question  of 
their  personal  relations. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THERE  still  remained  the  task  of  winning  young 
Jeb's  assent  to  this  plan,  and  Anse  Havey  fore- 
saw a  stubborn  battle  there.  Jeb  had  been  read- 
ing law  that  winter  by  the  light  of  a  log  fire  through 
long  and  lonely  evenings  in  a  smoke-darkened  cabin. 

When  Anse  Havey  called  from  the  stile  one  night, 
the  boy  laid  a  battered  Blackstone  on  his  thin  knee  and 
called  out,  "  Come  in,  Anse,  and  pull  up  a  cheer." 
Anse  had  been  rehearsing  his  arguments  as  he  rode 
through  the  sleet-lashed  hills  and  he  was  deeply  trou- 
bled. In  the  hill  parlance,  "  Thar  was  big  trouble 
brewin',"  and  very  vitally  was  young  Jeb  "  in  the 
b'ilin'." 

The  man  and  the  boy  sat  on  either  side  of  the  fire- 
place as  the  sleet  pelted  endlessly  and  monotonously 
on  the  slabs  of  the  roof.  Penetrating  gusts  swept  in 
at  the  broken  chinking  and  up  through  the  warped 
floor  until  old  Bear-dog,  lying  at  their  feet,  shivered 
as  he  slept  with  his  forepaws  stretched  on  the  hearth 
and  the  two  men  hitched  their  chairs  nearer  to  the  blaze. 
By  the  bed  still  stood  the  rifle  that  had  been  Fletch's ; 
the  rifle  upon  which  the  boy's  eyes  always  fell  and 
which  to  him  was  the  symbol  of  his  duty. 

As  Bad  Anse  Havey  talked  of  the  future  with  all 
the  instinctive  forcefulness  that  he  could  command, 

the  boy's  set  face  relaxed  and  into  his  eyes  came  a  glint 

257 


258  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

of  eagerness,  because  he  himself  was  to  play  no  mean 
part  in  these  affairs. 

Into  his  heart  crept  the  first  burning  of  ambition,  the 
first  reaching  out  after  a  career.  He  saw  a  future 
opening  before  him  and  his  grave  eyes  were  drinking 
in  pictures  which  he  alone  saw  in  the  live  embers. 

Then  when  ambition  had  been  kindled  and  fanned  into 
blaze  the  elder  man  broached  the  topic  which  was  the 
crux  of  his  plea. 

"  The  man  that  can  do  things  for  the  mountains 
must  be  willin'  to  make  a  heap  of  sacrifices,  Jeb,"  he 
began. 

Jeb  laughed,  looking  about  the  bare  room  of  his 
cabin.  "  Mek  sacrifices?"  he  said.  "I  hain't  never 
knowed  nothin'  else  but  thet.  I  reckon  I  hain't  skeered 
of  sacrifices ! " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  way,  Jeb."  Anse  spoke  slowly, 
holding  the  boy  with  his  eyes,  and  some  premonition  of 
his  meaning  struck  in  so  that  the  lad's  lean  face  again 
hardened.  The  lines  that  had  come  around  his  mouth 
in  these  last  months  traced  themselves  stiffly  like  paren- 
theses about  his  lips.  His  eyes  turned  to  the  gun  and 
he  shook  his  head. 

"  Nothin'  kaint  stand  betwixt  me  an'  what  I've  got  ter 
do,  Anse,"  he  said  slowly.  He  did  not  speak  now  with 
wild  passion,  but  calm  finality.  "  I've  done  took  ther 
oath." 

For  a  while  Anse  Havey  did  not  speak.  At  last  he 
said  quietly,  "  I  reckon  ye've  got  rid  of  the  idea  that  I 
was  aimin'  to  deceive  ye,  Jeb.  I  told  ye  that  when 
Fletch's  assassin  came  back  to  the  mountains,  I'd  let 
ye  know.  I'm  goin'  to  keep  my  word." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  259 

Jeb  rose  suddenly  from  his  chair  and  stood  with  the 
fire  lighting  up  his  ragged  trousers  and  the  frayed 
sleeves  of  his  coat. 

"  Air  he  back  now  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Anse  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  yet,  Jeb,  but  he's  coming."  He  saw  the  twitch 
that  came  and  went  across  the  tight-closed  lips  which 
made  no  comment. 

"  Jeb,"  he  continued,  "  I  want  ye  to  help  me.  I  want 
ye  to  be  big  enough  to  put  by  things  that  it's  hard  to 
put  by." 

The  boy  once  more  shook  his  head.  "  Anse,"  he  re- 
plied slowly,  "  ask  me  ter  do  anything  else  in  God  Al- 
mighty's world,  but  don't  ask  me  thet,  cause  ef  ye  does 
I've  got  ter  deny  ye." 

"  I  ain't  askin'  ye  to  let  the  man  go  unpunished. 
I'm  only  askin'  you  to  let  me  punish  him  with  the 
law." 

Astonishment  was  writ  large  in  every  feature  of  Jeb's 
face.  He  stood  in  the  wavering  circle  of  light  while 
the  shadows  danced  and  swallowed  the  corners  of  the 
cabin,  and  wondered  if  he  had  heard  rightly.  At  last 
his  voice  carried  a  note  of  deep  disappointment  and 
he  spoke  as  though  unwilling  to  utter  such  treasonable 
words. 

"  I  reckon,  Anse,"  he  suggested,  "  ye  wouldn't  hardly 
hev  asked  a  thing  like  thet  afore  — "  there  was  a  hesi- 
tating halt  before  he  went  on  — "  afore  a  furrin  woman 
changed  yore  fashion  of  lookin'  at  things." 

Anse  Havey  felt  his  face  redden  and  an  angry  retort 
rose  to  his  lips.  But  the  charge  was  true  and  he  sud- 
denly wondered  how  many  others  of  his  people  through 


260  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  hills  were  saying  the  same  thing  about  him :  whether 
his  power  was  weakening. 

He  went  on  as  though  Jeb  had  not  spoken. 

"  All  I  ask  is  that  when  that  man  comes  ye'll  hold  your 
hand  until  the  Court  has  acted." 

"  Does  ye  reckon  Milt  McBriar  aims  ter  let  Sidering 
try  kin  of  his'n  atter  what  happened  afore?  "  was  the 
next  incredulous  question. 

Anse  Havey's  voice  broke  out  of  quiet  and  Anse 
Havey's  eyes  woke  to  a  fire  that  was  convincing. 

"  By  God,  /  aims  ter  have  him  do  it !  I  ain't  askin' 
leave  of  Milt  McBriar."  Then  he  added,  "  I  aims  to 
hang  the  man  that  kilt  your  daddy  in  the  jail-house  yard 
at  Peril,  an'  if  the  McBriars  get  him  they've  got  to 
kill  me  first.  Will  you  hold  your  hand  till  I'm 
through?  " 

The  boy  stood  there,  his  hands  slowly  twitching  and 
opening.  Finally  he  said,  "  Hit  ain't  a-goin'  ter  satisfy 
me  ter  penitentiary  thet  feller.  He's  got  ter  die." 

"  He's  goin'  to  die.  If  I  fail,  then  — "  the  clansman 
raised  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  concession  — "  then  he's 
yours.  Will  you  wait?  " 

"  I  don't  hardly  believe,"  said  Jeb  McNash  with 
conviction,  "  any  man  livin'  kin  keep  Milt's  hired  assas- 
sin in  no  jail-house  long  enough  ter  try  him  an'  hang 
him.  But  I'm  willing  ter  see.  I'll  hold  my  hand  thet 
long,  Anse,  but — "  Once  more  a  spasmodic  tauten- 
ing of  muscles  convulsed  the  boy's  frame,  and  his  voice 
took  on  its  excited  note  of  shrillness.  "  But  I  warns 
ye,  I'm  goin'  ter  be  settin'  thar  in  ther  High  Co'te.  I 
hain't  never  a-goin'  ter  leave  hit,  an'  ef  thet  Jury  clars 
him  —  or  ef  they  jest  penitentiaries  him,  I'm  going  ter 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  261 

kill  him   as   he   sets   thar  in  his    cheer  —  so  help   me 
God!" 

Loyal  in  their  stubborn  adherence  to  feud  leadership, 
the  Judge  and  Grand  Jury  secretly  returned  two  in- 
dictments bearing  the  names  of  Luke  Thixton  as  prin- 
cipal and  Milton  McBriar,  Sr.,  as  accessory  to  the  crime 
of  murder  "  against  the  peace  and  dignity  of  the  Com- 
monwealth of  Kentucky  and  contrary  to  the  statute  in 
such  case  made  and  provided."  Also  they  withheld 
their  action  from  public  announcement. 

Surreptitiously  and  guardedly  a  message  traveled 
up  the  water  courses  to  the  remotest  Havey  cabin. 
Bad  Anse  bade  his  men  be  ready  to  rise  in  instant  re- 
sponse to  his  call,  and  they  made  ready  to  obey. 

One  day  Juanita  Holland  and  Dawn  set  out  for  Lex- 
ington to  do  their  Christmas  shopping. 

Anse  Havey  rode  with  them  across  to  Peril  and  waved 
his  hat  in  farewell  as  they  stood  on  the  vestibule  of  the 
rickety  passenger  coach.  It  was  a  very  shabby  car 
of  worn  and  faded  plush,  but  to  Dawn  it  was  a  fairy 
chariot. 

As  she  sat  by  the  window  and  looked  out,  saying  little 
and  repressing  with  mountain  reserve  all  the  gasps  of 
delight  and  astonishment  that  came  bubbling  up  from 
her  heart,  Juanita  smiled  with  a  glow  in  her  own  veins. 
The  parted  lips  and  sparkling  eyes  of  her  first  and  most 
beloved  protegee,  were  lips  and  eyes  joyously  drinking 
in  a  panorama  of  wonder,  seeing  the  great  world  of  which 
she  had  only  dreamed.  At  last  the  foot-hills  fell  behind 
and  a  country  spread  out  where  the  trees  grew  far 
apart  in  smooth  lawns,  and  now  she  was  in  the  promised 


262  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

land  that  her  ancestors  had  missed ;  In  the  rich  culture 
of  the  Bluegrass. 

'About  her  were  the  marvels  of  mansions  and  metaled 
roads;  white  instead  of  clay-red.  But  while  her  heart 
thumped  with  the  wonder  of  it  all  she  bore  herself,  be- 
cause of  her  mountain  blood,  with  no  outward  show  of 
surprise  and  looked  at  each  new  thing  as  though  she  had 
known  it  from  her  birth. 

As  they  entered  the  lobby  of  the  Phoenix  Hotel  in 
Lexington  a  tall  youth  rose  from  a  chair  and  came 
forward.  If  the  boy  was  cruder  and  darker  and  less 
trim  in  appearance  than  his  Bluegrass  brethren,  at 
least  he  bore  his  head  as  high  and  walked  as  inde- 
pendently. He  came  forward  with  his  hat  in  his  hand 
and  his  voice  was  enthusiastic,  "  I'm  mighty  glad  ter 
see  ye,  Dawn." 

The  girl  looked  about  the  place  and  breathed  rather 
than  said,  "  Isn't  the  world  wonderful,  Milt  ?  " 

Two  days  followed  through  which  Dawn  passed  in 
transports  of  delight.  There  were  the  undreamed 
sights  of  shop  windows  decked  for  the  holiday  season 
and  the  crowds  on  the  streets,  and  the  gayety  and  mer- 
riment of  Christmas  everywhere.  She  had  never  heard 
so  much  laughter  before  and  she  found  it  infectious 
and  laughed,  too. 

Young  Milt  way-laid  her  in  a  dozen  shops  and  the 
sight  of  him  coaxed  a  brighter  color  into  her  cheeks 
despite  her  gay  dismissals.  "  Go  on  away,  boy,"  she 
would  tell  him.  "  Don't  you  see  I'm  too  busy  to  be 
bothered  with  you  ?  " 

Once  he  whispered,  as  he  stood  at  her  elbow  in  the 
crush  of  a  toy  store,  "  I  hain't  a-goin'  ter  be  much  as- 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  263 

tonished  ef  old  Santa  Claus  puts  somethin'  on  thet  tree 
fer  you,  Dawn.  I  met  up  with  him  just  now  an*  he 
named  hit  ter  me." 

At  last  she  found  herself  again  in  a  faded  plush  car 
beside  Juanita  with  young  Milt  sitting  opposite.  In 
the  racks  overhead  and  piled  about  them  was  a  mys- 
terious litter  of  gayly  tied  packages. 

Of  course  they  had  much  more  than  their  two  pairs 
of  saddle-bags  could  carry,  but  young  Milt  would  help 
them  and  Anse  Havey  would  be  at  the  train  to  meet 
them.  Old  Milt,  too,  was  on  that  train,  but  he  paused 
only  to  nod  before  disappearing  into  the  shabbier  smok- 
ing compartment  where  he  had  business  to  discuss.  A 
man  was  waiting  for  him  in  there  whom  old  acquaint- 
ances might  have  passed  by  without  recognition.  It 
was  the  devout  hope  of  Milt  McBriar  that  when  they 
left  the  train  at  Peril,  any  acquaintances  who  might 
be  lounging  about  would  so  fail  to  recognize  him. 

Luke  Thixton  bore  an  altered  appearance.  Always 
he  had  been  ragged  and  unkempt  of  person.  His  black 
beard  had  ambushed  his  features  until  save  for  cheek- 
bones and  nose  and  eyes,  men  had  forgotten  what  the 
face  itself  was  like.  His  hair  had  always  fallen  long  and 
straggly  under  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

But  now  he  had  been  shaved  and  his  hair  was  closely 
cropped.  He  wore  a  suit  of  new  clothes  that  came  near 
to  fitting  him.  A  disguise  of  cleanliness  enveloped  him. 

While  the  Christmas  shoppers  laughed  in  the  day 
coach,  Luke  received  final  instructions  in  the  empty 
smoker. 

He  was  to  pass  as  swiftly  and  unobtrusively  as  pos- 
sible through  Peril  and  go  direct  across  the  ridge. 


264  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

He  and  Milt  would  leave  the  train  without  conversa- 
tion or  anything  to  mark  them  as  companions.  After 
that  Luke  knew  what  he  was  to  do,  and  no  further  con- 
ference would  be  necessary  until  he  came  to  report  suc- 
cess and  collect  his  wage. 


IT  was  noon  when  the  train  rumbled  again  over  the 
trestle  near  the  town  and  all  morning  a  steady, 
feathery  snow  had  been  falling,  veiling  the  sights 
from  the  car  windows  and  wrapping  the  mountains  in  a 
cloak  of  swan's-down. 

At  last  the  trucks  screamed,  the  old  engine  came  puff- 
ing and  wheezing  to  a  tired  halt  and  the  two  girls  with 
young  Milt  at  their  heels  made  their  way  out,  burdened 
with  parcels. 

On  the  cinder  platform  Juanita  looked  about  for 
Anse  Havey  and  she  saw  him  standing  in  a  group  with 
Jeb  and  several  other  men  whom  she  did  not  know  — 
but  Anse's  face  was  not  turned  toward  her,  and  it  did 
not  wear  the  look  of  expectancy  that  the  thought  of  her 
usually  brought  there.  Jeb's  countenance,  too,  was 
white  and  very  set,  and  a  breathless  tensity  seemed  to 
hold  the  whole  picture  in  fixed  tautness. 

There  were  several  clumps  of  men  standing  about,  all 
armed,  and  every  face  wore  the  same  expression  of  wait- 
ing sternness. 

A  gasp  of  premonition  rose  to  Juanita's  lips  as  she 
caught  the  sinister  note  of  suspense  with  which  the  at- 
mosphere was  freighted.  Then  Milt  McBriar  stepped 
down  from  the  smoker  vestibule,  followed  by  another 
man. 

As  the  two  of  them  turned  in  opposite  directions  on 
265 


266  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  trampled  snow  of  the  platform,  a  man  who  had  been 
standing  with  Bad  Anse  Havey  laid  his  hand  heavily 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  clean-shaven  arrival,  and  said 
in  a  clear  voice,  "Luke  Thixton,  I  want  ye  fer  ther 
murder  of  Fletch  McNash."  So  that  was  what  it  all 
meant ! 

Old  Milt  McBriar,  for  once  startled  out  of  his  case- 
hardened  self-control,  wheeled  to  demand  angrily, 
"  What  hell's  trick  is  this  ?  "  His  eyes  were  blazing  and 
his  face  worked  with  passionate  fury. 

A  second  Deputy  answered  him.  "  An'  Milt  McBriar 
I  wants  you,,  too,  on  an  indictment  for  accessory  ter 
murder." 

Juanita  felt  Dawn's  spasmodic  fingers  clutching  her 
arm  and  felt  her  own  knees  grow  suddenly  weak.  She 
heard  a  soft  clatter  of  parcels  on  the  snow-wrapped 
cinders  as  young  Milt  dropped  them  and  leaped  for- 
ward, his  own  eyes  kindling,  and  his  right  hand  fran- 
tically clawing  at  the  buttons  of  his  coat.  But  before 
young  Milt  could  draw  his  weapon  from  its  arm-pit 
holster,  Jeb  McNash  had  wheeled  to  face  him,  bending 
forward  to  a  half  crouch.  The  younger  McBriar  halted 
and  bent  back  under  the  glint  of  the  revolver  which 
Jeb  was  thrusting  into  his  face. 

Haveys,  armed  and  grim  of  visage,  began  drawing 
close  about  the  captives  in  a  menacing  cordon. 

Dawn  clung  with  bloodless  lips  and  white  cheeks  to 
the  elder  girl  as  she  watched  her  brother  holding  his 
weapon  in  the  face  of  the  boy  whom  she  suddenly  real- 
ized she  loved  more  than  her  brother. 

Then  the  Sheriff  spoke  again.  "  Thar  hain't  no  use 
in  makin'  no  trouble,  Milt.  Ther  Grand  Jury  hes  done 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  267 

acted  an'  I  reckon  ye'd  better  let  ther  law  take  its 
course." 

"  Why  don't  ye  take  me,  too  ?  "  demanded  the  heir 
to  clan  leadership  in  a  tense,  passionate  voice.  "  I'm  a 
McBriar.  That's  all  ye've  got  against  any  of  these 
men." 

"  Ther  Grand  Jury  didn't  indict  ye,  son,"  responded 
the  Sheriff  calmly. 

Then  the  older  McBriar  became  suddenly  quiet  again 
and  self-possessed.  He  turned  to  his  boy. 

"  Milt,"  he  said  sternly,  "  you  keep  outen  this. 
Thar's  other  work  for  ye.  You  ride  over  home  an'  tell 
every  man  that  calls  hisself  a  McBriar — "  his  voice 
suddenly  rose  in  the  defiant  crescendo  of  a  trapped 
lion  — "  tell  every  man  that  calls  hisself  a  McBriar, 
thet  ther  Haveys  hev  got  me  in  their  damned  jail-house 
—  an'  ask  'em  how  long  they  aims  ter  let  me  lay  thar." 

Young  Milt  turned  and  went  at  a  run  toward  the 
livery  stable.  Over  his  shoulder  as  he  went  he  flung 
back  at  Jeb,  who  stood  looking  after  him  with  lowered 
pistol,  "  I'm  goin'  now,  but  I'll  be  back  ter  hev  a  reck- 
onin'  with  ye !  " 

And  Jeb  shouted,  too :  "  Ye  kain't  come  back  none 
too  soon,  Milt.  I'll  be  hyar  when  ye  comes." 

Then  the  group  started  on  its  tramp  toward  the 
Court-house  and  the  little  jail  that  lay  at  its  side. 

Juanita  suddenly  realized  that  she  and  Dawn  were 
standing  as  if  rooted  there.  The  older  girl  heard  an 
inarticulate  moan  break  from  the  lips  of  the  younger, 
and  then  as  though  waking  out  of  sleep  she  looked  ab- 
sently down  at  a  litter  of  beribboned  parcels  which  lay 
about  her  feet.  That  message  which  Old  Milt  had  flung 


268  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

back  to  his  people  on  the  lips  of  his  son,  would  send 
tumbling  to  arms  every  man  who  could  carry  a  rifle. 

And  the  Haveys  were  grimly  waiting  for  them.  The 
Haveys  were  already  here.  The  two  girls  could  not 
ride  across  the  ridge  now.  They  could  only  sit  in  their 
room  at  the  wretched  hotel  and  wait. 

Juanita  was  glad  that  little  Dawn  could  cry.  She 
couldn't.  She  could  only  look  ahead  and  see  a  pro- 
cession of  hideous  possibilities. 

It  had  been  a  few  minutes  after  noon  when  Young 
Milt  had  rushed  into  the  livery  stable  and  ordered  his 
horse.  In  that  one  instant  all  his  college  influences  had 
dropped  away  from  him,  and  he  was  following  the  fierce 
single  star  of  clan  loyalty.  His  father  who  had  never 
been  any  man's  captive  was  back  there  in  the  vermin-in- 
fested little  "jail-house."  And  when  Young  Milt  came 
back,  the  one  Havey  clansman  he  had  marked  for  his 
own  would  be  the  boy  under  whose  pistol  muzzle  he  had 
been  forced  to  give  back  —  young  Jeb  McNash. 

The  stroke  had  taken  the  McBriars  completely  by 
surprise.  The  boy  must  reach  his  own  territory  and 
rally  them  to  their  fullest  numbers  even  from  the  re- 
motest coves.  This  battle  was  to  be  fought  in  the 
enemy's  own  stronghold  and  against  a  force  which  was 
ready  to  the  last  note  of  preparedness. 

So  nothing  could  happen  until  to-morrow.  Nothing 
would  happen  in  all  likelihood  until  the  day  after  that, 
and  meanwhile  the  two  girls  in  the  hotel  must  sit  there 
thinking. 

The  little  town  itself  lay  dismal  and  helpless  with 
its  shacks  scattered  over  its  broken  and  uneven  levels. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  269 

Here  and  there  a  shaggy-coated  horse  shivered  at  a 
hitching  rack;  here  and  there  men,  in  twos  and  threes, 
stood  scowling.  On  the  chocolate-colored  mountains 
the  snow  was  still  spitting. 

Dawn  perhaps  found  it  hardest,  for  in  this  one  day 
Dawn  had  grown  up,  and  to-morrow  would  bring  the 
boy  whom  she  now  confessed  loving,  though  she  confessed 
it  with  self-contempt,  leading  a  force  to  meet  that  of 
her  own  people,  and  at  the  front  of  her  own  people  was 
her  brother,  fighting  to  avenge  her  father.  Juanita, 
whose  eyes  could  not  escape  ironical  reminders  when 
she  glanced  down  at  the  Christmas  packages,  seemed  to 
hear  over  and  over  the  voice  of  Anse  Havey  saying, 
"  I'm  doin'  it  because  ye  asks  it." 

She  had  sought  to  avert  an  assassination  and  it  seemed 
that  the  effort  would  precipitate  a  holocaust. 

Anse  was  very  busy,  but  he  found  time  to  come  to 
her  that  afternoon.  In  the  bare  little  hotel  lobby  the 
firelight  glinted  on  a  number  of  rifles  as  their  owners 
lounged  about  the  fire. 

And  in  Anse  she  saw  once  more  the  stern  side.  His 
face  was  unsmiling  and  in  his  eyes  was  that  expression 
which  made  her  realize  how  inflexibly  he  would  set 
about  the  accomplishment  of  the  thing  he  had  under- 
taken, but  as  he  spoke  to  her  a  sudden  softness  came 
into  his  pupils. 

"  God  knows  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "  that  this  thing 
broke  just  now.  I  didn't  aim  that  ye  should  be  no 
eye-witness." 

Juanita  smiled  rather  wanly.  Old  Milt,  he  told  her, 
would  soon  be  released.  "  We  ain't  even  goin'  to  keep 


270  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

him  in  the  jail-house  no  longer  than  mornin'.  We 
couldn't  convict  him  an'  it  would  only  bring  on  more 
trouble." 

"  Why  was  he  arrested,  then?  "  she  asked  blankly. 

"  Just  to  keep  him  out  of  mischief  over  night,"  he 
smiled.  "  Even  the  law  can  be  used  for  strategy." 

"  What  will  happen  when  the  McBriars  come  back?  " 
she  demanded  in  a  shaken  voice. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  can't  hardly  tell  ye  that. 
I'd  like  right  well  to  know  myself." 

But  the  next  morning,  Anse  Havey  came  again  and 
cautioned  the  two  women  not  to  leave  their  rooms  and 
not  to  keep  their  shutters  open.  All  that  day  the  town 
lay  like  a  turtle  tight  drawn  into  its  shell.  Streets  be- 
came empty.  Doors  were  locked  and  shutters  barred. 
But  toward  evening,  to  the  girl's  bewilderment,  she  saw 
Haveys  riding  out  of  town  instead  of  into  it.  Soon 
there  were  no  more  horses  at  the  racks.  By  night  the 
place  which  was  to  be  assaulted  to-morrow  seemed  to 
have  been  abandoned  by  its  defenders. 

Old  Milt  McBriar  had  been  liberated  and  had  ridden 
out  in  the  morning,  boiling  with  wrath,  to  meet  the 
horsemen  who  were  hurrying  in.  The  figure  of  Bad 
Anse  Havey  she  saw  often  from  her  window  when,  in 
disobedience  to  her  orders,  she  looked  out,  but  for  the 
most  part  the  force  of  his  clansmen  had  evaporated. 

Then  came  another  wretched  night  and  with  the  sec- 
ond forenoon  the  snow-wrapped  town  settled  down  to 
the  empty  silence  of  a  cemetery,  but  with  early  after- 
noon the  new  procession  began  to  arrive.  A  long  and 
continuous  stream  of  McBriar  horsemen,  each  armed  to 
the  teeth,  rode  past  the  hotel  and  went  straight  to  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  271 

Court-house.  The  girl  had  seen  Anse  Havey  alone, 
and  seemingly  unarmed,  going  that  same  way  an  hour 
before. 

A  wild  alarm  seized  her.  Where  were  all  the  Havey 
forces  now?  Was  Anse  trying  to  hold  his  prisoner  alone 
against  his  enemies?  Had  all  his  clan  deserted  him? 
Was  he  already  the  discarded  leader  of  his  wolf-pack? 
The  girl  sat  down  to  wait.  She  was  very  faint  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  sat  there  for  eternity  and  all  she 
saw  was  a  spot  on  the  wall  where  the  flaking  and  dirty 
paper  had  been  patched. 

Slowly  a  shaft  of  pale  light  came  through  the  win- 
dow at  a  low  angle.  The  sun  was  sinking  through  the 
yellow  ghost  of  a  glow.  Then  she  heard  again  the 
sound  which  she  had  heard  on  her  first  night  in  the  moun- 
tains, only  now  it  came  from  a  hundred  throats. 

It  was  the  McBriar  yell  and  after  it  came  a  scattering 
sequence  of  rifle  and  pistol  shots.  The  clan  was  going 
away  again,  and  shooting  up  the  town  as  they  went, 
but  what  had  happened  down  there  at  the  jail  and 
Court-house?  The  girl  rose  to  her  feet  and  clasped  her 
hands  to  her  lips  to  stifle  a  scream. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ATER  she  heard  the  story.  The  McBriars  had 
come  expecting  battle.  They  had  found  every 
road  open,  and  the  town  delivered  over  to  their 
mercy!  For  a  time  they  had  gone  about  looking  for 
trouble,  and  finding  no  one  to  oppose  them.  Then 
Old  Milt  and  his  son  had  ridden  to  the  Court-house  to 
demand  the  keys  of  the  jail.  They  discovered  Judge 
Sidering  sitting  in  the  little  office  which  adjoined  his 
court-room,  and  with  him,  entirely  unarmed  and  without 
escort,  sat  Bad  Anse  Havey.  When  the  two  McBriars, 
backed  by  a  score  of  armed  men,  broke  fiercely  into  the 
room,  others  massed  at  their  backs,  crowding  doorway 
and  hall. 

Judge  Sidering  greeted  his  visitors  as  though  no  in- 
timation had  ever  reached  him  that  they  were  coming 
with  a  grievance. 

"  Come  in,  Milt,  and  have  a  chair,"  he  invited. 

"Cheer,  hell!"  shouted  Milt  McBriar.  "Give  me 
the  keys  ter  thet  jail-house  an*  give  'em  ter  me  quick." 

Opening  the  drawer  of  his  desk  as  if  he  had  been 
asked  for  a  match,  Judge  Sidering  took  out  the  big 
iron  key  to  the  outer  door  and  the  smaller  brass  key 
to  the  little  row  of  cells.  He  tossed  the  two  across  to 
Milt  in  a  matter-of-fact  fashion. 

Five  minutes  later  the  McBriar  chief  was  back,  trem- 
bling with  rage.  He  had  found  the  jail  empty. 

272 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  273 

"  If  you're  lookin'  for  Luke  Thixton,  Milt,"  enlight- 
ened the  Judge  calmly,  "  the  High  Sheriff  took  him  to 
Louisville  yesterday  for  safe-keepin'." 

The  answer  was  a  bellow  of  rage.  Old  Milt  McBriar 
threw  forward  his  rifle. 

Then  Anse  looked  up  and  spoke  slowly,  "  I  reckon 
it  wouldn't  profit  ye  much  to  harm  us,  Milt.  We  ain't 
armed  an'  it  would  bring  on  a  heap  of  trouble." 

Outside  rose  an  angry  chorus  of  voices.  The  news 
that  the  jail  was  empty  was  going  through  the  crowd. 

For  a  time  the  McBriar  stood  there,  debating  his  next 
step.  The  town  seemed  at  his  mercy.  Seemed!  That 
word  gave  him  pause.  The  way  home  lay  through 
Havey  territory  which  might  mean  twenty  ragged 
miles  of  solid  ambush.  Anse  Havey  sat  too  quietly  for 
Milt's  ease  of  mind.  Was  he  baiting  some  fresh  trap? 
It  was  not  like  Anse  Havey  to  place  himself  in  an  ene- 
my's hands  with  no  recourse  planned  for  the  next  step. 

The  old  intriguer  felt  baffled  and  at  sea.  He  had 
grown  accustomed  to  weighing  and  calculating  with 
guileful  deliberation.  He  balked  at  swift  and  instinc- 
tive action.  Moreover,  if  he  debated  long,  he  might  not 
be  able  to  control  his  men.  He  inquiringly  looked  up 
—  to  Little  Milt,  who  was  fighting  back  the  crowd  at 
the  door  and  locking  them  outside.  Beyond  the  panels 
could  be  heard  loud  swearing  and  the  impatient  shuffling 
of  many  feet. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  son  ?  "  inquired  the  older  man 
of  the  younger.  His  voice  held  a  note  of  appeal  and 
breaking  power. 

When  young  Milt  had  ridden  out  of  Peril  no  feudist 
in  the  hills  had  borne  a  heart  fuller  of  hatred  and  hunger 


274  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

for  vengeance,  but  that  was  because  of  his  father.  Now 
his  father  was  free.  For  Luke  Thixton  he  had  a  pro- 
found contempt.  He  saw  in  the  situation  only  a  game 
of  wits  in  which  Anse  Havey  was  winner. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  a  grin  which  he  could  not  re- 
press, "  hit  looks  right  smart  ter  me  like  thar  hain't 
nothin'  to  do  but  ride  on  back  home  an*  try  again  next 
time." 

"Ride  home  an'  leave  things  standin'?"  demurred 
the  father  blankly.  Already  he  was  reaching  the  period 
of  his  stormy  life  where  he  was  very  weary  of  having 
to  settle  every  question  for  himself.  He  wanted  to  be 
able  to  lean  a  little  on  the  judgment  of  someone  else. 

Young  Milt  seemed  quite  philosophical :  "  I  don't 
hardly  reckon  we  kin  take  him  outen  ther  Looeyville 
jail-house,  kin  we?  I  reckon  they've  got  ter  fotch  him 
back  hyar  sometime.  Let's  just  bide  our  time."  And 
in  the  end  the  counsel  of  the  younger  generation  pre- 
vailed. 

Outside  there  had  been  a  short,  sharp  struggle  with 
a  mutinous  spirit.  These  men  had  come  for  action  and 
they  did  not  want  to  ride  back  foiled,  but  the  word  of 
Old  Milt  had  stood  unchallenged  too  long  to  collapse 
suddenly.  Yet  he  led  back  a  grumbling  following  and 
bore  a  discounted  power.  They  could  not  forget  that 
a  Havey  had  worsted  him. 

So  the  spirit  of  the  men  who  had  come  to  fight  vented 
itself  in  yells  and  random  volleys  to  which  there  was  no 
reply,  and  again  a  train  of  horsemen  were  on  their  way 
into  the  hills.  When  it  was  all  over  and  Juanita  sat 
there  in  her  empty  school  she  was  realizing  that  after 
all  the  desperate  moment  had  only  been  deferred  and 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  275 

must  come  again  with  absolute  certainty.  Christmas 
was  only  two  days  off  and  her  gun-rack  was  empty. 
When  she  had  come  home  there  had  not  been  a  single 
weapon  there. 

There  would  be  no  Christmas  tree  now!  The  be- 
ribboned  packages  lay  in  a  useless  pile.  Had  school 
been  ostensibly  in  session,  she  knew  that  the  desks 
would  have  been  as  empty  as  the  gun-rack.  The  whole 
turtle-like  life  had  drawn  in  its  head  and  the  country- 
side lay  as  though  besieged. 

On  Anse  Havey's  book-shelves  were  a  few  new  vol- 
umes, for  Juanita  was  feeding  his  scant  supply  of  lit- 
erature, and  a  softer  type  of  poetry  was  being  added  to 
his  frugal  and  stern  repertoire.  A  number  of  men  left 
the  mountains  and  went  into  exile  elsewhere.  These 
were  the  witnesses  who  must  testify  against  Luke  Thix- 
ton  and  whose  lives  would  not  have  been  worth  counter- 
feit money  had  they  remained  at  home. 

Then  came  Christmas  Day  itself,  black  and  soggy 
with  the  thaw  that  had  set  in  and  a  moody  dreariness  in 
the  sky.  The  sun  seemed  to  have  despaired  and  made 
his  course  spiritlessly  from  dawn  to  twilight,  crawling 
dimly  across  his  daily  arc. 

Brother  Anse  Talbott  came  over  to  the  school  and 
found  both  women  sitting  apathetically  by  an  un- 
trimmed  fir  tree,  amid  a  litter  of  forgotten  packages. 
The  children  of  Tribulation  were  having  the  sort  of 
Christmas  they  had  always  had  —  a  day  of  terror  and 
empty  cheerlessness. 

"  Hit  seems  like  a  right-smart  pity  fer  them  little 
shavers  ter  be  plumb  teetotally  disapp'inted,"  mused  the 
old  preacher  reflectively.  "  'Spose  now  ye  put  names 


376  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

on  them  gew-gaws  an'  let  me  jest  sorter  ride  round  an' 
scatter  'em." 

"  You  dear  old  Saint ! "  cried  Juanita,  suddenly 
roused  out  of  her  apathy.  "  But  you'll  freeze  to  death 
or  get  drowned  in  some  ford." 

"  Thet's  all  right,"  he  answered  briefly.  "  I  reckon 
I  kin  go  ther  route." 

It  took  Good  Anse  Talbott  three  days  of  battle  with 
quicksand  and  mire  to  finish  that  mission.  But  for 
three  days  he  grimly  rode  torrent-flushed  trails,  the 
one  man  who  could  go  unchallenged  alike  to  the  houses 
of  McBriars  and  Haveys.  Impartially  the  ragged 
and  drab-colored  Christmas  Saint  crossed  and  recrossed 
the  line  which  was  now  a  dead-line,  pausing  to  leave 
cheering  trinkets  under  many  dark  roofs,  and  smiling 
in  his  bushy  beard  as  he  carried  away  the  remembrance 
of  childish  smiles.  And  because  at  each  house  he  told 
them  that  Juanita  Holland  had  sent  him,  the  girl  was 
canonized  afresh  in  hearts,  old  and  young,  back  in 
roadless  coves  and  on  bleak  hillsides. 

Once  on  Christmas  Day,  Juanita  spoke  of  young 
Milt  and  she  saw  Dawn's  face  change,  from  tear-stained 
distress  to  hard  bitterness. 

"  I  wonder  when  he's  going  back  to  Lexington  ?  " 
suggested  the  older  girl,  and  the  younger,  unconsciously 
lapsing  into  dialect,  flashed  quickly  at  her.  "  Don't 
never  name  him  ter  me.  I  hates  him!  He's  a  Mc- 
Briar!" 

Later  in  the  day  as  they  stood  in  the  sodden  air  by 
the  fence  young  Milt  himself  rode  by  and  started  to 
draw  rein.  He  slipped  one  hand  into  a  pocket  which 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  277 

was  bulging  with  some  sort  of  package,  but  Dawn, 
though  her  eyes  met  his  in  direct  gaze,  raised  her  chin 
and  looked  through  him  as  though  he  had  no  exist- 
ence. 

For  an  instant  the  boy's  lips  moved  as  if  to  speak, 
then  they  tightened  and  without  a  word  he  rode  on,  his 
shoulders  stiff  and  his  own  head  as  high  as  the  girl's 
had  been. 

That  night,  though,  when  the  lad  sat  moodily  in  his 
own  room,  his  hand  slipped  once  more  into  his  pocket. 
Slowly  it  came  out,  bearing  a  small  box.  Inside  was 
a  gold  locket  that  he  had  bought  in  Lexington  and  a 
slender  gold  chain  to  support  it.  He  turned  the  thing 
over  in  his  hand  and  looked  at  it,  then  he  rose  and  went 
out  of  the  house  and  down  to  the  slowly  freezing  creek 
and  tossed  the  thing  into  the  inky  water. 

Every  evening  found  Anse  Havey  seated  before  Jua- 
nita's  hearth,  studying  the  flicker  of  the  firelight  on  her 
face.  Every  detail  of  her  expression,  became  to  him  as 
something  he  had  always  known  and  worshiped  —  the 
little  troubled  furrow  between  her  brows,  the  change- 
fulness  of  her  eyes  through  a  varied  scale  of  blue  — 
each  of  them  to  his  thinking  more  beautiful  than  the 
others  —  the  exquisite  chiseling  of  her  lips  and  the 
crisp  tendril-like  curl  of  the  hair  on  her  forehead  and 
neck ;  these  were  all  things  that  he  saw  again  when  he  was 
alone. 

Some  day  Malcolm  would  come  back  and  marry  her 
and  then  —  at  that  point  Bad  Anse  Havey  refused  to 
follow  his  trend  of  thought  further.  He  only  ground 


278  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

his  teeth.  "  Ye  damn  fool,"  he  told  himself,  "  that  ain't 
no  reason  why  ye  shouldn't  make  the  most  of  to-day. 
She's  right  here  now,  an'  she's  sun  an'  moon  an'  star- 
shine  an'  music  an'  sweetness." 

She  did  not  know,  and  he  gave  her  no  hint,  that  in 
these  times,  with  plots  and  counter-plots  hatching  on 
both  sides  of  the  ridge  he  never  made  that  journey  in 
the  night  without  inviting  death.  He  was  walking  miles 
through  black  woodland  trails  each  evening  to  relieve 
for  an  hour  or  two  her  loneliness,  and  to  worship  with 
sealed  lips  and  a  rebellious  heart. 

She  accepted  his  tribute  as  a  thing  taken  for  granted, 
never  looking  deep  enough  into  his  eyes  to  read  the 
depth  of  pain  which  they  mirrored.  It  was  a  comfort 
to  have  him  there,  even  if  for  an  hour  at  a  time  she 
would  seem  to  forget  his  presence  and  gaze  at  the  embers 
with  eyes  that  told  of  thoughts  wandering  far  away; 
and  since  that  was  all  he  could  have  he  accounted  it  well 
worth  its  cost  in  risk  and  weariness  and  made  no  com- 
plaint. 

One  night  as  he  turned  from  the  hill  trail  into  the  road 
a  rifle  shot  rang  out  and  he  heard  the  zip  of  a  bullet  in 
the  naked  brush  at  his  back.  With  ingrained  caution 
he  sank  out  of  sight  and  crouched  listening,  but  his  lips 
broke  into  a  contemptuous  smile  as  the  wild  shout  from 
the  darkness  told  him  that  it  was  only  a  drunken  rider 
in  the  night.  That,  too,  he  did  not  mention. 

On  the  night  before  he  was  to  go  to  Peril  to  attend 
the  trial  of  Luke  Thixton,  he  came  with  a  very  full  and 
heavy  heart.  He  knew  that  it  might  be  a  farewell. 
To-morrow  he  must  put  to  the  touch  all  his  hold  on 
his  people  and  all  his  audacity  of  resolution.  He  stood 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  279 

at  the  verge  of  an  Austerlitz  or  a  Waterloo,  and  he 
had  undertaken  the  thing  for  no  reason  except  that  it 
had  pleased  her  to  command  it. 

He  knew  that  among  his  own  followers  there  were 
smiles  for  the  power  with  which  a  foreign  woman  had 
enmeshed  his  independence,  and  if  one  failure  marred 
his  plans  those  smiles  would  become  derisive.  It  was 
weakness  to  go  on  as  he  was  going,  gazing  dumbly  at 
her  with  boundless  adoration  that  he  dared  not  voice. 
To-night  he  would  bluntly  tell  her  that  he  was  doing 
these  things  because  he  loved  her;  that  while  he  was 
glad  to  do  them,  he  could  not  let  her  go  on  blindly  mis- 
understanding his  motives.  He  feared,  and  the  thought 
galled  him  with  self-contempt,  that  to  please  her  he 
would  throw  down  his  whole  regime  in  ruins  before  her 
and  let  her  walk  over  his  own  body  lying  across  it.  But 
she  must  know,  too,  that  that  disloyalty  to  his  people 
and  mission  had  cost  him  his  self-respect.  So  he  would 
tell  her  that  he  loved  her  hopelessly  and  would  not  see 
her  again. 

But  when  he  reached  the  school  she  rose  to  receive 
him  and  he  could  see  only  the  slimness  of  her  graceful 
figure  and  the  smile  of  welcome  on  her  lips,  and  the  man 
who  had  never  been  recreant  before  tp  the  mandate  of 
resolution  became  tongue-tied. 

She  held  out  a  hand  which  he  took  with  more  in  his 
grip  than  the  clasp  of  friendship,  but  that  she  did  not, 
or  would  not,  notice. 

*'  Anse,"  she  laughed,  "  I've  had  a  letter  from  home 
to-day,  urging  me  to  give  it  all  up  and  come  back.  They 
don't  realize  how  splendidly  I  am  going  to  succeed, 
thanks  to  your  help.  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  soon 


280  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

and  mark  some  more  trees  for  felling.  It  won't  be  long 
now  before  they  can  begin  building  again." 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  brows  that 
were  deeply  drawn  and  eyes  full  of  suffering,  "  if  ye'll 
ever  have  time  to  stop  talkin'  about  the  school  for  a 
little  spell  an'  remember  that  I'm  a  human  bein'." 

"  Remember  that  you're  a  human  being?  "  she  ques- 
tioned in  perplexity. 

She  stood  there  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  her 
chair  and  her  face  puzzled.  He  decided  at  once  that 
that  expression  was  the  most  beautiful  she  had  ever 
worn,  and  he  sturdily  held  that  conviction  until  her 
eyes  changed  to  laughter,  when  he  foreswore  his  al- 
legiance to  the  first  fascination  for  the  second. 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  a  human  being?  "  she  teased. 
"  When  you  wear  that  sulky  face  you  are  only  half  hu- 
man. I  ought  to  make  you  stand  in  the  corner  until 
you  can  be  cheerful." 

"  I  reckon,"  he  said  a  little  bitterly,  "  if  ye  ordered 
me  to  stand  in  the  corner  I'd  just  about  do  it.  I  reckon 
that's  about  how  much  manhood  I've  got  left." 

But  he,  too,  laughed  in  the  next  moment.  It  pleased 
her  Majesty  this  evening  to  be  a  capricious  child  and 
how  can  a  man  talk  sternly  with  a  beautiful  child?  He, 
who  was  to-morrow  to  imperil  his  whole  future  in  obe- 
dience to  her  wish,  sat  silent,  gazing  at  her  and  totally 
unable  to  say  the  things  he  had  meant  to  say. 

After  a  while  she  picked  up  a  sewing  basket  and  drew 
from  it  some  filmy  and  gossamer  thing,  Anse  Havey  did 
not  know  what.  He  felt  vaguely  that  it  was  some  detail 
of  woman's  gear,  belonging  to  the  world  of  dainty  things 
with  which  he  had  no  familiarity. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  281 

For  a  long  while  she  plied  her  needle,  her  slender 
fingers  moving  in  quick,  graceful  little  gestures  and  her 
brow  bent  over  her  work.  She  was  an  exquisite  picture. 
Her  profile;  the  neck  that  rose  so  splendidly  from  her 
straight  shoulders,  the  fingers  that  flashed  back  and 
forth  and  the  slender  foot  that  rested  on  the  hearth ;  all 
these  proclaimed  her  almost  exotic  refinement  and  aris- 
tocracy. 

Anse  Havey  cast  a  glance  down  at  his  own  mud- 
splashed  boots  and  coarse  clothing  —  he  the  leader  of 
the  wolf-pack!  A  great  pain  of  contrast  and  remote- 
ness seized  him,  and  a  passionate  hunger  gnawed  at  his 
heart.  The  far-away  look  came  again  to  her  eyes  and 
he  knew  that  he  was  for  the  moment  forgotten;  that 
between  them  lay  measureless  distances,  and  that  she 
was  living  in  a  world  to  which  he  was  a  stranger.  At 
last  he  rose. 

"  I  reckon  I'll  be  goin',"  he  said  bluntly ;  "  I've  got 
to  start  for  Peril  at  sun-up." 

"  What's  going  on  at  Peril  ?  "  she  absently  inquired. 

"  They're  goin'  to  try  Luke  Thixton." 

At  that  the  far-away  look  left  her  face  and  for  an 
instant  again  the  man  saw  that  panic  in  her  eyes,  which 
made  him  hope  that  she  did  care  something. 

"  Anse,"  she  pleaded,  "  take  care  of  yourself  .  .  . 
I  shall  be  so  horribly  anxious  .  .  ." 

He  found  himself  taking  a  quick  step  forward.  Now 
he  would  tell  her.  He  would  break  his  silence  and 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 

"  Why  will  ye  be  anxious  ?  "  he  demanded  harshly. 
"  What  difference  would  it  make  ?  " 

"  You  are  my  very  best  friend,  and  I  can't  spare 


282  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

you,"  she  said  innocently.  "  Wouldn't  it  make  a  dif- 
ference to  you  if  I  were  in  danger?  " 

What  could  a  man  say  to  such  artless  ignorance  and 
blindness  of  true  conditions?  He  brought  his  teeth  to- 
gether with  a  grating  clamp.  Once  more  she  had  made 
him  helpless  by  a  note  of  appeal,  and  once  more  he  was 
silent. 

"  I  reckon  I  won't  be  in  much  danger  to-morrow,"  he 
said,  "  but  it  would  be  a  God's  blessin'  if  I  was  dead." 

These  swift  changes  of  mood  were  part  of  his  moun- 
tain nature,  she  told  herself,  where  storms  come  quickly 
and  go  quickly.  Such  outbursts  she  ignored. 

The  morning  of  the  trial  dawned  on  a  town  prepared 
to  face  a  bloody  day.  Long  before  train-time  crowds 
had  drifted  down  to  the  station. 

As  though  by  common  consent  the  McBriars  stood  on 
one  side  of  the  track  and  the  Haveys  on  the  other. 

For  an  hour  they  massed  there,  lowering  of  face,  yet 
quietly  waiting.  The  time  had  not  yet  come  to  grapple. 
Then  the  whistle  shrieked  across  the  river  and  each  crowd 
came  a  little  forward,  with  hands  tightened  on  rifles, 
awaiting  the  supreme  moment.  The  Deputy  Sheriffs 
came  out  of  the  depot  and  stood  waiting  between  the 
two  crowds  with  a  strained  assumption  of  unconcern. 
But  when  the  train  arrived  it  carried  an  extra  coach  and 
at  sight  of  it  the  McBriars  groaned  and  knew  once  more 
they  were  defeated. 

They  had  come  to  wrest  a  prisoner  from  a  Sheriff's 
posse  and  encountered  trained  soldiery.  Behind  the 
opened  sashes  of  the  coach  they  saw  a  solid  mass  of 
blue  overcoats  and  brown  service  hats.  Every  window 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  283 

bristled  with  rifle  barrels  and  fixed  bayonets.  Then 
while  the  train  was  held  beyond  its  usual  brief  stop,  and 
while  those  rifle  barrels  were  trained  impartially  on 
Haveys  and  McBriars,  a  line  of  soldiers  began  pouring 
out  into  the  road-bed  and  forming  cordons  along  each 
side  of  the  track.  Both  lines  moved  slowly,  but  un- 
waveringly forward,  pressing  back  the  crowds  before 
their  urgent  bayonets. 

Two  wicked-looking  Gatling  guns  were  unloaded  from 
the  baggage  car,  and,  tending  them  as  men  might  handle 
beloved  pets,  came  squads  whose  capes  were  faced  with 
artillery  red. 

Shortly  a  compact  little  procession  in  column  of  fours 
with  the  Gatling  guns  at  its  front  and  a  hollow  square 
at  its  center  was  marching  briskly  to  the  Court-house. 
In  the  hollow  square  went  the  defendant,  handcuffed  to 
the  Sheriff.  Without  delay  or  confusion  the  Gatling 
guns  were  put  in  place,  one  commanding  the  Court- 
house Square  and  one  casting  its  many-eyed  glance  up 
the  hillside  at  the  back. 

Then  with  the  bayonets  of  sentries  crossed  at  the 
doors  the  bell  in  the  cupola  rang  while  Judge  Sidering 
walked  calmly  into  the  building  and  instructed  the 
Sheriff  to  open  Court. 

His  Honor  had  directed  that,  save  officials,  every  man 
who  sought  admission,  should  be  disarmed  at  the  door. 

Luke  Thixton  bent  forward  in  his  chair  and  growled 
into  the  ear  of  Old  Milt  McBriar  who  sat  at  his  left: 

"  I've  got  as  much  chanst  hyar  as  a  fish  on  a  hill 
top.  Hain't  ye  go  in'  ter  do  nothin'  f  er  me  ?  "  And 
Milt  looked  about  helplessly  and  swore  under  his  breath. 

One  on-looker  there  had  not  been  searched.     Young 


284  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Jeb  McNash  bore  the  credentials  of  a  special  Deputy 
Sheriff  and  under  his  coat  was  a  holster  with  its  flap 
unbuttoned.  While  the  panel  was  being  selected;  while 
lawyers  wrangled  and  witnesses  testified ;  while  the  Court 
gazed  off  with  half-closed  eyes,  rousing  out  of  seeming 
drowsiness  only  to  overrule  or  sustain  a  motion,  young 
Jeb  sat  with  his  arms  on  the  table,  and  never  did  his 
eyes  leave  the  face  of  the  accused. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IT  was  a  very  expeditious  trial. 
Judge  Sidering  glanced  at  the  faces  of  Old  Milt 
and  young  Jeb  and  had  no  desire  to  prolong  the 
agony  of  those  hours.     The  defense  half-heartedly  relied 
upon  the  old  device  of  a  false  alibi  which  the  State 
promptly  punctured   and   riddled.     Even   the  lawyers 
seemed  in  haste  to  be  through  and  set  a  voluntary  limit 
on  their  arguments. 

At  the  end  His  Honor  read  brief  instructions  and 
the  panel  was  locked  in  its  room. 

Then  the  McBriars  drew  a  little  closer  around  the 
chair  where  Old  Milt  waited  and  the  militia  captain 
strengthened  his  guard  outside  and  began  unostenta- 
tiously sprinkling  uniformed  men  through  the  dingy 
court-room  until  the  hodden-gray  throng  was  flecked 
with  blue. 

The  lawyers  rose  and  stretched  their  arms  and  stood 
chatting  and  chewing  tobacco  about  the  rusty  stove. 
Milt  McBriar  and  the  accused  whispered  together,  wear- 
ing faces  devoid  of  expression,  but  through  and  over 
this  affectation  of  the  casual,  brooded  the  spirit  of  the 
portentous. 

The  militia  officers  who  stood  charged  with  the  duty 
of  curbing  these  dangerous  potentialities  made  no  at- 
tempt to  conceal  their  anxious  earnestness,  and  Jeb  Mc- 

MC 


286  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Nash  in  whose  eyes  dwelt  the  fierce  intentness  of  a  cat 
at  a  mouse-hole  was  not  dissembling  either. 

At  length  there  came  a  rap  on  the  door  of  the  jury- 
room  and  instantly  the  low  drone  of  voices  fell  to  a  hush. 
His  Honor  poured  a  glass  of  water  from  the  chipped 
pitcher  at  his  elbow  while  Luke  Thixton  and  Milt  Mc- 
Briar,  for  all  their  forced  immobility  of  feature,  stiffly 
braced  themselves.  Like  some  restless  animal  of  many 
legs  the  rough  throng  along  the  court-room  benches 
scraped  its  feet  on  the  floor. 

Young  Jeb  shifted  his  chair  a  few  inches  so  that  the 
figure  of  the  defendant  might  be  in  an  uninterrupted 
line  of  vision.  He  leaned  far  forward  with  his  eyes 
riveted  on  the  face  of  the  man  he  hated.  His  right  hand 
quietly  slipped  under  his  coat,  and  his  fingers  loosened 
a  weapon  in  its  holster  and  nursed  the  trigger. 

Then  with  a  dragging  of  shoe  leather  the  twelve 
"  good  men  and  true  "  shambled  to  a  semi-circle  before 
the  bench,  gazing  stolidly  and  blankly  at  the  rows  of 
battered  law-books  which  served  his  Honor  as  a  back- 
ground. 

There  they  stood  awkwardly  in  the  gaze  of  all  eyes. 
Judge  Sidering  glanced  into  the  beetling  countenance  of 
their  foreman  and  inquired  in  that  bored  voice  which 
seems  a  judicial  affectation  even  in  questions  of  life 
and  death,  "  Gentlemen,  have  you  agreed  upon  a  ver- 
dict? " 

The  foreman  nodded.  The  sheet  of  paper,  which 
he  passed  to  the  Clerk,  had  been  signed  by  more  than 
one  juror  with  a  cross-mark  because  he  could  not 
write. 

"  We,  the  jury,"  read  the   Clerk  in  a   clear  voice, 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  287 

"  find  the  defendant  Luke  Thixton  guilty  as  charged 
in  the  indictment." 

There  although  he  had  not  yet  reached  the  end  he 
indulged  in  a  dramatic  pause,  then  read  on  the  more 
important  clause  in  the  terms  of  the  Kentucky  law 
which  leaves  the  placing  of  the  penalty  in  the  hands  of 
the  jurors  — "  and  fix  his  punishment  at  death." 

As  though  relieved  from  a  great  pressure  young  Jeb 
McNash  withdrew  his  hand  from  his  holster  and  settled 
back  in  his  chair  with  flexed  muscles.  Judge  Sidering's 
formal  question  broke  on  dead  quiet,  "  So  say  you  all, 
gentlemen  ?  "  and  twelve  shaggy  heads  nodded  wordless 
affirmation. 

Soldiers  filed  in  from  the  rear.  In  less  than  thirty 
seconds  the  prisoner  had  disappeared.  Outside  the 
Gatling  guns  remained  in  place,  and  the  troops  patroled 
the  streets. 

For  two  days  the  McBriars  remained  in  town,  but  the 
troops  stayed  many  days,  and  in  that  time  Luke  had 
again  been  taken  back  to  Louisville.  Neither  of  the 
clans  would  have  been  foolhardy  enough  to  have  defied 
the  warning  scowl  of  Gatling  guns  that  could  rake  hills 
and  puncture  walls  as  fast  as  a  man  could  turn  a  crank. 

Once  more  Old  Milt  led  back  a  disgruntled  faction 
with  no  more  spirited  a  programme  than  to  go  home  and 
bide  their  time  again.  When  they  brought  Luke  back 
to  hang  him,  they  would  have  one  final  opportunity. 

A  seeming  of  quiet  under  which  hot  wrath  smoldered 
settled  over  hill  and  cove,  but  a  new  note  began  to  run 
through  the  cabins  of  the  McBriar  dependents.  It  was 
a  note  of  waning  faith  and  shaken  loyalty  for  their 
chief. 


288  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

From  every  recent  clash  of  brains  and  efficiency,  the 
younger  man  west  of  the  ridge  had  emerged  the  victor. 
Old  Milt  had  been  a  lion  once,  but  now  men  said,  "  It 
sorter  seemed  like  he'd  done  lost  his  gumption."  So 
the  lesser  McBriars  with  cooling  military  ardor  began 
sending  their  children  back  to  school. 

Twice  Milt  had  called  his  clan  out  to  battle  and  twice 
they  had  responded  with  no  faltering  or  hesitation. 
Twice  he  had  ordered  them  home  again  with  nothing 
done.  When  next  he  called  there  would  be  men  among 
them  who  would  not  stir  from  their  hearths  at  his  bid- 
ding. Meantime  their  children  might  as  well  be  learn- 
ing their  rudiments,  for  in  spite  of  all  the  quick  rever- 
sion to  type  at  the  call  of  battle,  that  spirit  which 
Juanita  Holland  had  planted  was  growing,  and  in  each 
interval  of  peace  it  became  more  apparent.  Many  old 
and  acknowledged  ideas  were  being  subtly  undermined. 

Juanita's  spirit  began  to  revive  again.  Her  chil- 
dren were  coming  back  to  her  and  elders  came  with 
the  children.  There  were  guns  again  in  her  rack 
now,  and  some  of  them  were  guns  on  which  the  pale 
wintry  light  had  glinted  that  day  just  before  Christmas 
when  the  McBriars  had  made  their  primitive  attack  on 
the  bastille. 

Old  Milt  read  the  signs  and  felt  that  his  dominion  was 
now  a  thing  upon  which  decay  had  set  its  seal,  and  un- 
der his  grave  face  he  was  masking  a  breaking  heart. 
His  star  was  setting,  and  since  he  was  no  longer  young 
and  was  utterly  incapable  of  bending,  he  sickened  slowly 
through  the  wet  winter,  and  men  spoke  of  him  as  an 
invalid. 

With  Milt  "  ailin'  "  there  was  no  one  to  take  up  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  289 

reins  of  clan  government  and  those  elements  that  had 
been  held  together  only  by  his  iron  dominance  began 
drifting  asunder  and  weakening. 

One  mill  day  when  a  group  of  McBriars  met  with  their 
sacks  of  grist  at  a  water-mill  someone  put  the  question, 
"  Whose  a-goin'  ter  go  down  thar  an'  take  Luke  Thixton 
away  from  ther  Haveys  now  thet  Old  Milt's  about 
petered  out  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  silence  and  at  last  a  voice  drawled, 
"  Hit  hain't  a-goin'  ter  be  me.  What's  Luke  Thixton 
ter  me  anyhow?  He  didn't  nuver  lend  me  no  money." 

"  I  reckon  thar's  a  heap  o'  sense  in  thet,"  answered 
another ;  "  'pears  like,  when  I  come  ter  recollect,  mos' 
of  ther  fightin'  an'  fursin'  I've  done  in  my  time  hain't 
been  in  my  own  quarrels  nohow."  And  slowly  that 
spirit  spread  and  gained  recruits  for  peace. 

When  Anse  Havey  went  over  to  the  school  one  day 
about  that  time  Juanita  took  him  again  to  the  rifle-rack, 
now  once  more  well  filled.  "  Have  a  look,  my  Lord 
Barbarian,"  she  laughed.  "  Mars  is  paying  me  trib- 
ute. So  ever  shall  it  be  with  tyranny." 

Slowly  and  one  by  one  Anse  Havey  took  up  the  pieces 
and  examined  them.  "  It  ain't  only  Mars  that's  payin' 
ye  tribute,"  he  thought,  but  he  only  said :  "  That's 
all  right.  I  seem  to  see  more  McBriar  guns  there  than 
Havey  guns.  It  would  suit  me  all  right  if  ye  got  the 
last  one  of  'em." 

"  Mightn't  you  as  well  hang  yours  there,  too  ?  "  she 
challenged.  "  I'm  still  willing  to  give  you  the  honors  of 
war."  But  he  only  smiled.  "  I'll  hang  mine  up  last 
of  all,  I  reckon.  Luke  Thixton  ain't  hung  yet,  and 
there's  other  clouds  a-brewin'  besides  that." 


290  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  What  clouds  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Are  you  still  ex- 
pecting a  foreign  invasion?" 

"  There  was  a  bunch  of  surveyors  through  here 
lately,"  he  said  slowly.  "  They  just  sort  of  looked 
round  and  went  away.  Some  day  they'll  come  back." 

"And  then?" 

Anse  Havey  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  may  need 
my  gun,"  he  said. 

Not  until  it  became  certain  that  he  must  die  did  Old 
Milt  send  for  his  son,  or  even  permit  him  to  be  told  of 
his  illness.  But  just  as  the  winter's  siege  was  ending 
Young  Milt  came  home  and  two  days  later  the  mountains 
heard  that  the  old  feudist  was  dead.  When  that  news 
reached  Luke  Thixton  in  the  j  ail  at  Louisville  he  turned 
his  face  to  the  wall  of  his  cell  for  he  knew  that  his  last 
chance  had  died  with  the  old  McBfiar.  Now  without 
doubt  he  must  hang. 

The  father  could  not  force  himself  as  he  lay  dying 
in  his  great  four-post  bed  to  make  a  full  confession  to 
his  son.  Soon  he  must  face  a  Court  where  he  could 
no  longer  dissemble,  but  he  must  die  without  forfeiting 
Young  Milt's  respect. 

Brother  Anse  Talbott  and  Juanita  and  a  doctor  who 
had  come  from  Lexington  were  witnesses  to  that  leave- 
taking.  They  saw  the  old  man  beckon  feebly  to  the 
boy.  Young  Milt  came  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
schooling  his  features  as  he  awaited  the  final  injunctions 
which,  by  his  code,  would  be  mandatory  for  life. 

They  all  waited  to  hear  the  old  lion  break  out  in  a 
final  burst  of  vindictiveness ;  to  see  him  lay  upon  his 
boy's  young  shoulders  the  unfinished  ordeals  of  his 
hatreds.  But  it  was  the  eyes  of  the  father,  not  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  291 

feudist,  that  gazed  up  from  the  pillow.  His  wasted 
fingers  lay  affectionately  on  his  son's  knee  and  his  voice 
was  gentle. 

"  Son,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I'd  love  ter  hev  ye  live  at 
peace  ef  ye  kin.  .  .  .  I've  done  tried  ther  other  way 
an'  hit's  kilt  me  ...  I'd  ruther  ye'd  let  my  fights  be 
buried  along  with  my  body.  .  .  .  Anse  Havey's  goin' 
ter  run  things  in  these  mountings.  .  .  .  He's  a  smarter 
man  than  me.  I  couldn't  never  make  no  peace  with 
Anse  Havey,  but  the  things  that's  always  stood  be- 
twixt us  lays  a  long  way  back.  .  .  .  Mebby  you  an' 
him  mout  pull  tergether  an'  end  ther  feud.  ...  I 
leaves  thet  with  you,  but  hit  took  death  ter  make  me  see 
hit.  .  .  ."  Here  he  broke  off  exhaustedly  and  for  a 
time  seemed  fighting  for  breath.  At  last  he  added, 
"  I've  knowed  all  along  thet  Luke  killed  Fletch  Mc- 
Nash.  I  thought  I'd  ought  ter  tell  ye." 

A  week  after  the  death  of  the  old  leader  Young  Milt 
rode  over  to  the  house  of  Anse  Havey,  and  there  he 
found  Jeb  McNash.  The  two  young  men  looked  at 
each  other  without  expression.  Just  after  the  death 
of  the  elder  McBriar,  Jeb  would  not  have  willingly  re- 
newed their  quarrel,  and  as  for  Young  Milt  he  no 
longer  felt  resentment. 

"  Anse,"  said  the  heir  to  McBriar  leadership,  "  I 
rid  over  here  ter  offer  ye  my  hand.  I've  done  found  out 
that  Luke  is  es  guilty  es  hell.  I  didn't  believe  hit 
afore.  So  fur  es  I'm  concerned  he  kin  hang  an'  I'm 
goin'  ter  tell  every  McBriar  man  that  will  hearken  ter 
me  ther  same  thing.  So  fur  as  I'm  concerned,"  went 
on  the  lad,  "  I'm  against  the  shootin'  of  any  man  from 
the  la'rel." 


293  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Just  as  the  earliest  flowers  began  to  peep  out  with 
shy  faces  in  the  woods,  and  the  first  softness  came  to 
the  air,  men  began  rearing  a  scaffold  in  the  Court-house 
yard,  at  Peril. 

One  day  a  train  brought  Luke  Thixton  back  to  the 
hills,  but  this  time  only  a  few  soldiers  came  with  him, 
and  they  were  not  needed.  Juanita  tried  to  forget  the 
significance  of  that  Friday,  but  she  could  not  for  all 
the  larger  boys  were  absent  from  school,  and  all  day 
Thursday  the  road  had  been  sprinkled  with  horses 
and  wagons.  She  knew  with  a  shudder  that  they  were 
going  to  town  to  see  the  hanging.  A  gruesome  fascina- 
tion of  interest  attached  to  so  unheard-of  an  event  as 
a  McBriar  clansman  dying  on  a  Havey  scaffold,  with 
his  people  standing  by  idle. 

But  Luke  Thixton,  going  to  his  death  there  among 
enemies,  went  without  flinching  and  his  snarling  lips 
even  twisted  a  bit  derisively  when  he  mounted  the 
scaffold,  as  they  had  twisted  when  he  declined  Good 
Anse  Talbott's  ministrations  in  the  jail. 

Now  he  gazed  for  the  last  time  about  the  jumbled 
levels  of  the  town.  Off  among  the  mountains  there  was 
just  a  suggestion  of  coming  green.  The  sky  was  full 
of  the  amber  light  that  tells  of  spring.  A  week  later 
there  would  be  vividly  tender  little  leaves  where  now 
there  were  only  buds,  but  for  him  of  course  that  would 
be  too  late. 

Nearer  at  hand  about  the  square,  and  further  away, 
even  on  the  roofs  of  houses,  stood  and  perched  and 
sat  his  audience.  There  were  women  in  gay  shawls  and 
men  on  whose  faces  was  only  the  curiosity  of  beholding 
an  unusual  spectacle.  It  was  different  from  the  type 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  293 

and  temper  of  the  crowd  which  he  would  have  wished 
to  see  there.  Now  there  were  no  grim  faces  and  glint- 
ing rifle  barrels,  no  implacable  resolve  to  save  him. 
Since  he  must  die  among  enemies  he  would  give  them  no 
weakness  over  which  to  gloat  in  memory. 

He  raised  his  head  and  his  snarl  turned  slowly  and 
unpleasantly  into  a  grin  of  contempt,  and  his  last  words 
were  a  picturesque  curse  called  down  alike  on  the  heads 
of  the  foes  who  put  him  to  death  and  the  false  friends 
who  had  failed  him. 

Afterward  Young  Milt  and  Bad  Anse  shook  hands, 
and  the  younger  man  said  to  the  older: 

"  Now  that  I've  proved  to  ye  that  I  meant  what  I 
said,  I  reckon  we  can  make  a  peace  that'll  endure  a 
spell,  can't  we  ? "  And  Anse  answered,  "  Milt,  I've 
been  hopin'  we  could  ever  since  the  day  we  watched 
for  the  feller  that  aimed  to  burn  down  the  school." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THAT  spring  new  buildings  went  up  at  the  school, 
and  brave  rows  of  flowers  appeared  in  the  gar- 
den. 

At  first  her  college  had  been  a  kindergarten  in 
effect,  but  now  as  Juanita  stood  on  the  porch  at  recess 
she  wondered  if  any  other  school-mistress  had  ever 
drawn  about  her  such  a  strange  assortment  of  pupils. 
There  were  little  tots  in  bright  calico,  glorying  in  big 
bows  of  cotton  hair-ribbon  —  but  submitting  grudg- 
ingly to  the  combing  of  the  hair  they  sought  to  adorn. 
There  were  larger  boys  and  girls,  too,  and  even  a  half- 
dozen  men  who  were  just  now  pitching  horse-shoes  and 
smoking  pipes  —  and  they  also  were  learning  to  read 
and  write. 

Off  to  himself,  as  morose  as  though  he  would  brook 
no  kindliness  or  companionship,  was  a  bony  lad  of 
seventeen  with  a  hermit  visage,  forbidding  and  sour. 
He  had  come  to  the  school  almost  slinking,  from  some 
"  spring-branch "  back  in  the  hills  where  his  people 
lived  like  cattle.  He  walked  with  a  scowl  on  his  face 
and  a  chip  on  his  shoulder  and  sat  apart  in  the  school- 
room, but  he  studied  passionately  with  a  grim  tenacity 
of  purpose  and  his  mind  drank  up  what  came  to  it  like 
a  sponge. 

In  the  afternoons  women  rode  in  on  mules  and  horses 

or  came  on  foot  and  Juanita  taught  them  not  only  let- 

294, 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  295 

ters  and  figures,  but  lessons  looking  to  cleaner  and  more 
healthful  cabins. 

May  came  with  smiles  and  songs  in  the  sky  from 
sunrise  to  sunset  and  in  the  woods,  where  the  moisture 
rose  and  tender  greens  were  sending  out  their  hopeful 
shoots,  the  wildflowers  unfolded  themselves.  Then 
Juanita  Holland  and  Anse  Havey  would  go  together 
up  to  the  ridge  and  watch  the  great  awakening  across 
the  brown  and  gray  humps  of  the  hills,  and  under  their 
feet  was  a  carpet  of  delicate  petals. 

Blue  clusters  of  wild  flox  were  everywhere  in  little 
patches  of  cerulean  and  those  demurest  of  blossoms,  the 
*'  quaker  ladies,"  lifted  timid,  dew-drenched  faces  to 
the  sun. 

They  would  stroll,  too,  down  into  the  hollows  where 
the  earth  was  damp  and  the  wind-flowers  came  to  snow- 
flake  blossoms  and  the  violets  were  little  fallen  stars 
and  the  wild  columbine  sprang  from  the  angles  of  the 
rocks.  The  white  cups  of  the  May-apple  hid  there  un- 
der their  umbrella-like  leaves.  The  dogwood  soon  came 
to  dash  the  greening  woods  with  white  spray  and  take 
the  place  of  the  pioneer  redbud  and  the  frail  snow  of 
the  wild  plum.  The  leafage  was  all  delicate  and  young 
and  very  bright. 

Overhead  were  tuneful  skies  and  gallantly  riding 
clouds.  In  the  bottom  lands  the  lark  sent  out  his 
single-noted  call  and  his  silvery  trill  and  the  black  bird 
and  his  brilliant  cousin,  the  yellow-winged  starling,  were 
flitting  everywhere. 

Even  the  ache  in  Anse  Havey's  heart,  the  ache  of 
premonition,  gave  way  to  the  spirit  of  spring. 
These  blossoms  and  sap-fed  trees  must  know  that  the 


296  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

future  held  for  them  the  coming  of  winter  and  sleet  and 
snow  and  death,  yet  they  were  joyous  now  with  the 
fulness  and  richness  of  the  present.  He  would  make 
their  bright  philosophy  his  own.  He  was  walking 
these  woods  with  her,  and  in  their  silences  together  she 
smiled  on  him,  even  if  she  smiled  with  unawakened  eyes. 

Was  there  any  woman  born  here,  who  could  leap  as 
lightly  over  rocky  trails  or  dip  as  lithely  under  hanging 
ropes  of  vine  or  whose  voice  was  more  akin  to  that  of 
the  wood  thrush,  pouring  out  his  soul  in  happiness  and 
music  back  there  in  the  timber? 

Anse  Havey  had  never  had  such  a  companionship  and 
hidden  things  began  to  wake  in  him.  He  had  been, 
in  the  stress  of  life,  oak  and  rock.  Now  he  began  to 
realize  the  better  part,  for  "  in  its  sunshine  he  was 
vine  and  flower." 

So  when  she  stood  there,  with  the  spring  breeze 
caressing  the  curling  tendrils  at  her  temples,  and  blow- 
ing her  gingham  skirt  about  her  slim  ankles,  and  pointed 
off,  smiling,  to  his  house,  he  dropped  his  head  in  mock 
shame. 

" '  Only  the  castle  moodily,  gloomed  by  itself 
apart,' "  she  quoted  in  accusation  and  the  man  laughed 
boyishly. 

"  I  reckon  ye  haven't  seen  the  castle  lately,"  he  said. 
"  Ye  wouldn't  hardly  know  it.  It's  gettin'  all  cleaned 
up  an'  made  civilized.  The  eagle's  nest  is  turnin'  into 
a  sure-'nough  bird-cage." 

"Who's  changing  now?"  she  bantered.  "Am  I 
civilizing  you  or  — "  her  eyes  danced  with  badinage  — 
"  are  you  preparing  to  get  married?  " 

His  face  flushed  and  then  became  almost  surly. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  297 

"  Who'd  marry  me  ?  "  he  savagely  demanded. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  teased.  "  Whom  have 
you  asked?  " 

He  bent  a  little  forward,  and  said  slowly : 

"  Once  ye  told  me  I  was  wastin'  my  youth.  Ye 
'lowed  I  ought  to  be  captain  of  my  soul.  If  I  found 
a  woman  that  I  wanted  and  she  wouldn't  have  me  — 
what  ought  I  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  There  are  two  courses  prescribed  in  all  the  cor- 
respondence schools,  and  both  are  perfectly  simple," 
she  announced  with  mock  gravity.  "  One  is  to  simply 
take  the  lady  first  and  ask  her  afterward.  The  other 
is  even  easier:  get  another  girl." 

"  Oh !  "  he  said.  He  was  hurt  because  she  had  either 
not  seen,  or  had  pretended  not  to  see,  his  meaning.  She 
had  not  grasped  the  presumptuous  dream  and  ef- 
frontery of  his  heart. 

His  voice  for  a  moment  became  enigmatical  as  he 
said,  "  Sometimes  I  think  ye've  played  hell  in  these 
mountains." 

Usually  on  their  rambles  she  carried  a  small  book, 
and  now  it  pleased  her  to  ignore  his  surly  comment  and 
to  perch  herself  on  a  high  and  mossy  rock  and  open  her 
little  volume.  He  stood  down  below  with  his  elbows 
propped  on  the  top  of  the  bowlder,  wearing  such  a  face 
as  Pygmalion  may  have  worn  before  his  marble  Galatea 
turned  to  rosy  flesh  and  stepped  down  from  her  cold 
pedestal. 

"  Now  listen  and  I'll  tell  you  what  Mr.  Browning 
once  had  to  say  on  the  subject,"  she  ordered  and 
opening  the  book,  she  began  to  read  from  "  The  Statue 
and  the  Bust." 


298  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Slowly,  the  man,  at  first  impatient  of  so  impersonal 
a  thing  as  a  poet's  abstractions,  found  his  interest 
chained  and  a  fire  began  to  burn  in  his  eyes.  Was  she 
reading  him  that  old  romance  as  any  woman  to  any  man 
or  as  one  woman  giving  a  soul-deep  hint  to  one  man? 
As  she  came  to  the  moral  of  the  story  of  the  Duke  who 
delayed  too  long  in  taking  what  he  wished,  the  man's 
breath  was  coming  fast  and  his  fingers  were  clenched. 

" '  Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  to-morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now.' " 

She  let  the  book  drop  for  a  moment  and  her  eyes 
strayed.  The  man  felt  his  body  stiffen,  and  after  a 
while  she  took  up  the  little  volume  and  began  to  read, 
once  more  he  fancied  with  a  little  sigh. 

" '  But  the  next  day  passed  and  the  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet.' " 

He  was  sure  this  time  that  from  her  half-parted  lips 
a  sigh  had  broken,  and  that  there  was  personal  wist- 
fulness  in  the  little  line  between  her  brows.  He  bent 
closer  and  prompted  in  a  voice  which  he  knew  came 
hoarsely,  "  Go  on." 

"*So.    While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room. 

" '  I  hear  you  reproach,  "  But  delay  was  best 

Since,  their  end  was  a  crime."    "  Oh,  a  crime  will  do 

As  well,"  I  reply,  "to  serve  for  a  test 

As  a  golden  virtue  through  and  through    .    .     . 
And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost, 
Is  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin.  .  .  ." '" 


299 

She  shook  her  head  as  one  who  would  shake  off  a 
thought  which  carries  a  deep  hurt,  and  then,  looking  up 
at  Anse  Havey,  she  gave  a  little  start  and  forced  a 
smile. 

Suddenly  it  had  come  to  the  man  that  perhaps  after 
all  he,  too,  had  repeated  the  Duke's  mistake.  He,  too, 
had  one  youth  which  was  passing  and  could  not  be  re- 
newed. He  could  not  even  set  up  a  statue  in  the  square 
in  memory  of  its  love.  Slowly  the  veins  of  his  temples 
swelled  into  cords.  His  eyes  caressed  and  devoured 
the  face  of  the  girl  perched  there  above  him  on  the 
rock.  One  of  her  hands  rested  on  the  moss  and  to- 
ward it  his  own  hand  crept.  Then  it  was  that  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  start  and  smiled.  The  man's 
hand  came  back  and  in  his  chest  rose  a  groan  which 
did  not  reach  his  lips.  Though  she  had  been  reading 
at  him  she  had  not  been  reading  to  him.  She  had  been 
thinking  all  the  while  of  another  —  of  Roger  Mal- 
colm, he  supposed  —  and  when  she  had  looked  up  and 
realized  after  her  revery  that  he  was  there,  it  had  been 
almost  as  if  he  had  come  suddenly  and  had  surprised 
her.  From  such  thoughts  as  those  he  was  an  exile. 

"  So  you  see,"  she  said  blithely  enough,  "  Mr. 
Browning  seems  to  favor  the  first  course  recommended 
by  the  correspondence  schools,  rather  than  the  second," 

"  The  case  ain't  just  the  same  sort,  I  reckon,"  he 
said  with  an  effort.  "  The  lady  loved  him,  too,  ye 
see  .  .  .  and  besides  he  was  a  king  ...  or  pretty  nigh 
a  king." 

"  Every  man  can  be  a  king  if  he  will,"  she  declared 
and  the  furrow  came  back.  "  I  knew  a  man  once  who 
was  like  the  Duke.  He  waited." 


300  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Anse  Havey  gripped  his  teeth  together. 

"  I'm  obleeged  to  ye  for  the  advice,"  he  said.  "  Will 
ye  lend  me  that  book?  I  reckon  I'll  read  that  thing 
over  again  sometime." 

That  spring  silent  forces  were  at  work  in  the  hills; 
as  silent  and  less  beneficent  than  the  stirring  sap  and 
the  brewing  of  showers. 

Three  men  in  the  mountains  were  now  fully  con- 
vinced that  what  the  world  needs  the  world  will  have, 
and  they  were  trying  to  find  a  solution  to  the  question 
which  might  make  their  own  people  sharers  in  the  gain, 
instead  of  victims.  These  three  were  Anse  and  Milt 
and  Jeb,  and  their  first  step  was  the  effort  to  hold 
land-owners  in  check,  and  make  them  slow  to  sell  and 
guarded  in  their  bargaining. 

Jim  Fletcher,  a  mountain  man  who  had  for  years 
drifted  between  Tribulation  and  Winchester,  trading  in 
cattle  and  timber,  made  a  journey  through  the  hills  that 
spring,  and  was  everywhere  received  as  "  home-folks." 
For  him  there  were  no  bars  of  distrust  and  he  was  able 
for  that  reason  to  buy  land  right  and  left.  Though 
he  had  paid  for  it  at  a  price  above  the  average  it  was 
a  price  far  below  the  value  of  the  coal  and  timber  it 
contained  —  and  Jim  had  picked  his  land. 

Anse  Havey  and  his  associates  knew  that  Jim 
Fletcher  had  been  subsidized;  that  the  money  he  spent 
so  lavishly  was  not  his  own  money ;  and  that  he  came 
•as  a  stalking  horse,  but  they  did  not  know  that  he  had 
been  to  Louisville  and  had  conferred  there  with  Mr. 
Trevor.  Neither  did  they  know  at  once  that  he  had 
visited  the  cabins  of  every  malcontent  among  both 
the  former  factions  and  that  he  was  a  mischief-maker 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  301 

adroitly  laying  here  in  the  hills  the  foundation  for  a 
new  feud. 

Jim  had  a  bland  tongue  and  a  persuasive  manner 
and  he  talked  to  the  mountain  men  in  their  own  speech, 
but  he  was  none  the  less  the  advance  agent  of  the  new 
enemy  from  down  below:  the  personal  fulfilment  of 
Juanita's  prophecy  to  Roger  Malcolm. 

At  the  school  things  were  going  on  actively  and  hope- 
fully, with  now  and  then  a  marring  note  of  discourage- 
ment. 

One  Friday  afternoon  the  sullen  boy  came  in.  His 
face  was  flushed  and  his  appearance  hinted  of  drink- 
ing. He  said  no  word,  made  no  apology,  but  with  his 
manner  of  defiance  for  any  question,  went  to  the  rack 
and  took  out  his  rifle  and  his  revolver. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday  and  that  afternoon  Bad 
Anse  Havey  was  walking  with  Juanita. 

The  girl  had  anxiously  told  him  about  the  coming  of 
the  sullen  boy  to  withdraw  his  rifle  from  her  shrine. 
"  What  does  it  mean,  Anse  ?  "  she  demanded.  He  had 
laughed. 

"  I  reckon,"  he  retorted,  "  it  means  that  ye  can't 
change  nature  in  a  day  nor  grow  a  poplar  tree  in  a 
flower  pot." 

Then  while  they  still  talked  there  was  a  yell  from  the 
road  and  a  clatter  of  hooves.  They  looked  out  to  see 
one  of  those  old  mountain  demonstrations  that  used  to 
punctuate  Saturday  afternoons. 

A  party  of  drunken  horsemen  were  galloping  with 
their  bridle  reins  in  their  teeth  and  firing  off  rifles  and 
pistols  in  the  air  with  both  hands.  They  were  "  ridin' 
about,  huntin'  trouble."  They  were  attacking  no  one, 


302  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

unless  some  one  should  venture  to  smile  or  frown  at 
them.  They  were  showing  themselves  free-born 
citizens  and  a  law  to  themselves  and  they  were  all  full 
of  whiskey  and  quarrel. 

They  passed  the  school  and  their  shots  and  shouts 
went  around  the  turn  of  the  road.  At  their  head  rode 
the  sullen  boy  who  studied  with  passionate  ardor  and 
zest. 

Juanita  sighed,  but  Bad  Anse  only  smiled. 

"Let  'em  be,"  he  said  philosophically.  "They'll 
sober  up  after  while.  Just  be  right  glad  at  the  prog- 
ress ye've  made  — " 

"  Anse,"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  you  must  coun- 
sel your  people  not  to  take  their  guns  away." 

"  Me !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Ain't  ye  pushing  our  con- 
tract right  far?  When  did  I  ever  stand  for  clippin' 
an  eagle's  claws  ?  " 

And  yet  the  feud-leader  did  cause  a  word  to  go  from 
cabin  to  cabin,  to  the  effect  that  the  public  bearing  of 
arms  was  now  unnecessary,  and  showed  a  lack  of  con- 
fidence in  Young  Milt  McBriar,  who  was  no  longer  an 
enemy,  but  a  friend. 

"  Take  your  rifles  and  hang  'em  up  at  the  school, 
boys,"  he  suggested  to  a  group  one  day  on  the  road- 
side. "  As  long  as  they're  there  they'll  be  out  of  mis- 
chief." 

After  he  had  spoken  and  ridden  on  several  heads 
shook  dubiously. 

"  Looks  like  Anse  is  changin'  right  smart,"  said  one. 
"  It  beats  me  how  some  fellers  let  a  woman  lead  'em 
'round." 

"Ei  a  woman's  leadin'  him  round,"  retorted  a  more 


303 

loyal  defender,  "  no  one  else  don't.  I  reckon  hit  hain't 
hardly  becomin'  fer  none  of  ye  folks  ter  criticise  Anse 
Havey.  As  fer  me  I  hangs  my  old  rifle-gun  up  on  the 
peg  this  same  day,  an'  ef  anybody's  got  any  remarks 
ter  make  about  hit,  I'm  ready  ter  listen." 

In  a  few  days  the  boy  came  back.  He  never  al- 
luded to  his  outbreak  or  breathed  a  word  of  apology, 
but  he  put  the  gun  back  in  its  place  and  once  more  at- 
tacked his  books. 

Sometimes  a  lad  or  older  man,  going  out,  would  pause 
irresolute  at  the  rack  and  eye  his  weapon  covetously, 
but  in  the  end  he  hearkened  to  counsel  and  left  it  there. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Bruce?  "  inquired  Juanita  one 
day  as  she  found  a  tow-headed  lad  of  twenty  standing 
before  her  shrine  with  a  look  of  longing  in  his  face. 

"  I  was  jest  feelin'  kinder  lonesome  withouten  my 
rifle-gun,"  was  the  reply.  "  Hit  used  ter  be  my  dad's 
an'  hit's  done  some  good  work  in  hits  day." 

Juanita  nodded  and  it  was  her  smile  rather  than  her 
words  which  proved  disarming. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  sympathized,  "  but  those  days  are 
over.  These  are  days  of  peace." 

The  girl  did  not  realize  how  much  she  was  leaning 
on  the  strength  of  Anse  Havey,  how  she  depended  on 
him  for  counsel  and  encouragement,  which  he  gave  not 
in  behalf  of  the  school,  but  because  he  was  the  school- 
teacher's slave.  She  saw  the  little  hospital  rise  on  the 
hill  and  thought  of  what  it  would  do,  and  she  believed 
that  Anse  Havey  must  be,  in  his  heart,  converted,  even 
though  his  mountain  obstinacy  withheld  the  admission. 

Then  while  the  roads  and  hillsides  were  joyous  with 
spring  came  a  squad  of  lads  bearing  transit  and  chain, 


304 

who  begun  running  a  tentative  line  through  the  land 
that  Jim  Fletcher  had  bought.  Anse  Havey  watched 
them  grimly  with  arms  folded,  but  said  no  word  until 
they  came  to  the  boundary  of  his  own  place.  There 
he  met  them  at  the  border.  "  Boys,"  he  said,  "  ye 
mustn't  cross  that  fence.  This  is  my  land  an*  I  forbids 
ye." 

Their  foreman  argued. 

"  We  only  want  to  take  the  measurements  necessary 
to  complete  our  line,  Mr.  Havey,  we  won't  work  any  in- 
jury." 

Anse  shook  his  head. 

"  Come  in,  boys,  an'  eat  with  me  an'  make  yourselves 
at  home,"  he  told  them,  "  but  leave  your  tools  outside." 

Men  from  the  brick  house  patroled  the  fence  line 
with  rifles  and  the  young  men  were  forced  to  turn 
back. 

But  later  they  drew  near  the  house  of  old  Bob  Me* 
Greeger,  and  he,  stealing  down  to  a  place  in  the  thicket 
of  rhododendron,  saw  them  perilously  near  the  trickling 
stream  which  even  then  bore  on  its  surface  little  kernels 
of  yellow  corn.  Deeply  and  violently  Old  Bob  swore 
as  he  drank,  from  his  little  blue  keg,  and  when  next  day 
he  saw  them  again  he  asked  counsel  of  no  man.  He 
went  down  and  crept  close  through  the  laurel,  and  as 
his  old  rifle  spoke  a  school-boy  from  the  Bluegrass  fell 
dead  in  the  creek  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

AFTER  that  death,  the  first  murder  of  an  innocent 
outsider  the  war  which  Anse  Havey  had  so  long 
foreseen  broke  furiously  and  brought  the  or- 
ders of  upland  and  lowland  to  the  grip  of  bitter  ani- 
mosity. 

Old  McGreeger's  victim  had  been  young  Roy  Cal- 
vin, the  son  of  Judge  Calvin  of  Lexington  and  the 
name  of  Calvin  in  central  Kentucky  was  one  associated 
with  the  State's  best  traditions. 

It  had  run,  in  a  strong  bright  thread  through  the 
pattern  of  Kentucky's  achievements  and  when  news 
of  the  wanton  assassination  came  home,  the  State  awoke 
to  a  shock  of  horror.  The  infamy  of  the  hills  was 
screamed  in  echo  to  the  mourning  and  the  name  of  Bad 
Anse  Havey  was  once  more  printed  in  large  type. 

Editorial  and  news  column  alluded  to  him  as  the  pa- 
tron saint  of  the  lawless  order,  which  made  such  out- 
rages possible.  Though  Anse  held  his  peace,  Juanita 
saw  lines  of  stoical  sternness  settling  around  the  cor- 
ners of  his  lips,  and  knew  that  he  was  silently  burning 
with  the  injustice  of  reports  which  he  pretended  not 
to  hear. 

The  men  whose  capital  sought  to  wrest  profit  from 
the  hills  and  whose  employe  had  been  slain,  were  quick 

to  utilize  this  hue  and  cry  of  calumny. 

305 


306  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

They  hurled  themselves  into  their  fight,  for  gaining 
possession  of  coveted  land,  and  were  not  particular  as 
to  methods. 

Jim  Fletcher  came  and  went  constantly  between  the 
lowlands  and  highlands.  He  was  all  things  to  all  men 
and  in  the  hills  he  cursed  the  lowlander,  but  in  the  low- 
lands cursed  the  hills.  Milt  and  Jeb  and  Anse  rode 
constantly  from  cabin  to  cabin  in  their  efforts  to  cir- 
cumvent the  adroit  schemes  of  the  mountain  Judas 
who  had  sold  his  soul  to  the  foreign  syndicate. 

Fletcher  sought  a  foot-hold  for  capital  to  pierce 
fields  acquired  at  the  price  of  undeveloped  land  and 
then  to  take  the  profit  of  development.  Anse  sought 
to  hold  title  until  the  sales  could  be  on  a  fairer  basis 
and  so  the  issue  was  made  up. 

Capitalists  like  Malcolm  who  sat  in  directors'  rooms 
launching  a  legitimate  enterprise  had  no  actual  knowl- 
edge of  the  instrumentalities  being  employed  on  the 
real  battle-field.  Lawyers  tried  condemnation  suits 
with  indifferent  success  and  then  reached  out  their 
hands  for  a  new  weapon. 

Back  in  the  old  days  when  Kentucky  was  not  a  State, 
but  a  County,  land-patents  had  been  granted  by  Vir- 
ginia to  men  who  had  never  claimed  their  property. 
For  two  hundred  years  other  men  who  settled  as 
pioneers  had  held  undisturbed  possession:  they  and 
their  children's  children.  Now  into  the  Courts  piled 
multitudinous  suits  of  eviction  in  the  names  of  plain- 
tiffs whose  eyes  had  never  seen  the  broken  skyline  of 
the  Cumberlands.  The  purpose  was  deceit  since  it 
sought  to  drag  through  long  and  costly  litigation 
pauper  land-holders  and  to  impose  upon  their  poverty 


307 

such  a  galling  burden  as  should  drive  them  to  ultimate 
terms  of  surrender. 

Men  and  women  who  owned,  or  thought  they  owned, 
a  log  shack  and  a  tilting  cornfield  found  themselves 
facing  a  new  and  bewildering  crisis.  Their  untaught 
minds  brooded  and  they  talked  violently  of  holding  by 
title  of  rifle  what  their  fathers  had  wrested  from  Na- 
ture ;  what  they  had  tended  with  sweat  and  endless  toil. 

But  Anse  Havey  and  Milt  McBriar  knew  that  the 
day  was  at  hand  when  the  rifle  would  no  longer  serve. 
They  employed  lawyers  fitted  to  meet  those  other  lawyers 
and  give  them  battle  in  the  Courts  and  these  lawyers 
were  paid  by  Anse  Havey  and  Milt  McBriar. 

The  two  stood  stanchly  together  as  a  buffer  be- 
tween their  almost  helpless  people  and  the  encroaching 
tentacles  of  the  new  octopus,  while  Juanita,  looking  on 
at  the  forming  of  the  battle-lines,  was  torn  with 
anxiety. 

Once  she  said,  "  Anse,  Roger  Malcolm  speaks  of  com- 
ing here." 

"  Ye'd  better  warn  him  not  to  come,"  said  Anse 
grimly.  Then  he  added :  "  Oh,  he  wouldn't  have  no  call 
to  fear  nothin'  from  me.  There's  a  reason  why  I  ain't 
licensed  to  harm  him.  But  there's  a  spirit  in  the  hills 
I  won't  answer  for.  If  he  comes  he  mightn't  get  back." 

He  paused,  then  added :  "  But  maybe  ye  wants  to 
see  him?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  a  little  mournfully,  but  with 
decision. 

"  No,"  she  said  slowly.  "  Once  I  wished  for  him  all 
the  time  —  but  that's  over  now." 

In  one  way,  of  course,  that  statement  meant  noth- 


308  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

ing.  It  did  not  narrow  by  an  inch  the  breadth  of  the 
chasm  between  them  —  a  chasm  of  caste  and  kind. 
Yet  so  hungrily  does  a  heart  which  loves  grasp  after 
straws  of  encouragement  that  Anse  Havey  carried 
home  a  lighter  heart  and  hopes  wildly  clamoring  for 
recognition. 

In  Bad  Anse  Havey  the  combination  of  interests 
recognized  its  really  formidable  foe.  In  the  mountain 
phrase  he  must  be  "  man-powered  outen  ther  way." 
And  there  were  still  men  in  the  hills,  who  if  other  means 
failed  would  sell  the  service  of  their  "  rifle-guns  "  for 
money.  With  such  as  these,  it  became  the  care  of  cer- 
tain supernumeraries  to  establish  an  understanding. 
In  the  last  election  a  thing  had  happened  which  had 
not  for  many  years  before  happened  in  Kentucky;  a 
change  of  parties  had  swept  from  power  in  Frankfort 
the  administration  which  owed  loyalty  to  Havey  influ- 
ences. 

It  was  only  at  Juanita's  school  that  any  seeming  of 
tranquillity  remained.  There  while  the  elements  were 
battling  all  about,  the  pupils  were  learning  and  the 
sick  were  being  tended. 

The  girl  did  not  know  that  Anse  Havey  carried  in 
his  pocket  through  these  troubled  times  a  small  copy 
of  Browning,  and  that  often  he  read  again,  or  repeated 
to  himself: 

"  The  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost ; 
Is  —  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin  — " 

or  that  in  his  head  and  heart  was  going  on  a  debate 
more  vital  even  than  squatters'  rights  versus  Virginia 
patents. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  309 

A  new  law  had  recently  been  written  into  the  criminal 
jurisprudence  of  the  State,  providing  that  a  change  of 
venue  might  be  granted  in  cases  of  felony  on  the  mo- 
tion of  the  Commonwealth  as  well  as  that  of  the  de- 
fense. It  was  a  good  law,  making  it  possible  to  take  a 
criminal  out  of  a  district  where  the  hands  of  justice 
were  bound  by  local  prejudice  or  local  fear.  Now  the 
learned  counsel  for  the  syndicate  bethought  themselves 
of  its  possibilities  and  smiled. 

Bad  Anse  Havey  was  indicted  as  an  accessory  to  the 
murder  of  young  Calvin  and  he  would  be  tried  not  in 
Peril,  but  in  the  Bluegrass.  The  prosecution  would  be 
able  to  show  that  he  had  warned  the  surveyors  off  his 
own  place  and  had  picketed  his  fence  line  with  rifle-men. 
They  would  be  able  to  show  that  he  was  the  forefront 
of  the  fight  against  innovation  and  that  lesser  moun- 
tain men  followed  his  counsel  and  regarded  his  word 
as  law.  But  more  than  that  the  Jurors  who  passed  on 
his  question  of  life  and  death  would  be  drawn  from  a 
community  which  knew  him  only  by  his  newspaper- 
made  reputation. 

So  it  was  not  long  before  Anse  Havey  lay  in  a  cell 
in  the  Winchester  jail.  He  had  been  denied  bond, 
and  fronted  a  dreary  prospect  as  he  quoted  to  him- 
self: 

"The  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost; 
Is  —  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin  — " 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  Bluegrass  Kentuckian  lies 
implanted  a  spirit  of  justice  and  fair  play,  but  his  na- 
ture is  passionate.  He  flashes  up  hotly  to  battle  and 
sometimes  sees  through  eyes  blind  with  prejudice. 


310  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

When  the  trial  of  Anse  Havey  began  there  was  one 
spirit  in  the  land.  Here  was  an  exponent  of  the  un- 
justifiable system  of  murder  from  ambush.  In  the 
cemetery  at  Lexington  where  sleep  the  founders  of  the 
Western  empire,  lay  a  boy  whose  life  had  just  begun  in 
all  the  blossom  and  sunshine  of  promise  —  and  who 
had  done  no  wrong. 

Over  that  same  city  of  the  dead,  dominating  it  from 
a  tall  shaft,  rose  Joel  Hart's  great  figure  of  Henry 
Clay. 

It  stood  as  the  Great  Commoner  had  often  stood  in 
life,  with  one  hand  outstretched  in  earnest  plea  and 
head  raised  in  devoted  eloquence,  protesting  against  the 
shedding  of  fraternal  blood.  It  was  the  high  privilege 
of  the  men  drawn  from  that  jury  panel  to  make  of  the 
accused  such  an  example  as  should  awe  his  fellow  mur- 
derers. 

The  special  term  of  the  Court  had  brought  to  Win- 
chester a  throng  of  farmer  folk  and  on-lookers.  Their 
horses  stood  hitched  at  the  racks  about  the  square 
when  the  Sheriff  led  Anse  Havey  from  the  jail  to  the 
old  building  where  he  was  to  face  his  accusers  and  the 
Judges,  who  sat  on  the  bench  and  in  the  jury-box. 

White  ribbons  of  smooth  turnpike  rattled  in  the 
summer  drowsiness  to  the  hooves  of  trotting  horses  as 
the  friends  of  the  murdered  boy  trooped  in  from  man- 
sions and  cottages  set  in  woodlands  where  the  bluegrass 
waved  knee-deep.  They  came  to  see  justice  meted 
out  to  this  arch-fiend  of  the  wild  mountains.  Negroes 
nudged  each  other  and  pointed  to  him  with  loud  guffaws 
of  derision  as  he  walked,  passive  of  mien  and  erect  of 
shoulder,  from  his  cell  to  the  columned  front  of  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  311 

Clark  County  Court-house.  It  was  not  his  world,  but 
the  richer,  prouder  world  of  his  enemies. 

Back  in  the  tiers  of  benches  was  no  hodden  gray 
mass  of  men  in  butternut  and  women  in  calico,  but 
farmers  whose  acres  were  rich  and  young  men  in  clean 
linen  and  girls  in  gayly  flapping,  flower-trimmed  hats 
and  shimmery  summer  gowns. 

He  had  once  before  walked  among  such  people  as  a 
law-maker  in  the  State  Capital.  Now  they  sought  to 
send  him  back  to  Frankfort  as  a  convict  —  unless  they 
could  do  better  and  hang  him.  He  took  his  seat  with 
his  counsel  at  his  elbow  and  listened  to  the  preliminary 
formalities  of  impaneling  a  Jury.  His  face  told  noth- 
ing, but  as  man  after  man  was  excused  because  he  had 
formed  an  opinion,  he  read  little  that  was  hopeful  in 
the  outlook.  One  old  farmer  rose  belligerently  when 
his  name  was  reached  and  glared  vengefully  at  the 
prisoner. 

"  Have  you  any  bias  or  prejudice  which  would  pre- 
vent you  from  giving  this  defendant  a  fair  and  impar- 
tial trial  under  the  law  and  the  evidence?  "  came  the 
monotonous  question,  and  almost  before  it  had  ended 
the  venire-man  blazed  back,  "  I've  got  a  prejudice 
against  any  man  that  assassinates  his  neighbor." 

He  had  voiced  the  sentiment  of  his  County.  He  was 
a  little  more  outspoken  than  his  fellows,  but  that  was 
the  sole  difference.  Anse  Havey's  face  remained  mask- 
like  and  no  expression  of  anxiety  showed  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  very  tired  and  sat  through  the  taking  of  evi- 
dence and  through  the  vitriolic  denunciation  of  the 
Commonwealth's  statement  with  none  of  the  desperado's 
bravado  and  none  of  the  coward's  fear. 


31S  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

He  calmly  heard  perjured  witnesses  from  his  own 
country  testify  that  he  had  approached  them,  offering 
bribes  for  the  killing  of  young  Calvin  which  they  had 
righteously  refused.  He  knew  that  these  men  had  been 
bought  by  Jim  Fletcher  and  that  they  swore  away  his 
life  for  the  hire  of  syndicate  money,  but  he  only  waited 
patiently  for  the  defense  to  open.  He  saw  the  scowl 
on  the  faces  in  the  jury-box  deepen  into  conviction  as 
witness  after  witness  took  the  stand  against  him,  and 
he  saw  the  faces  of  on-lookers  mirror  that  scowl.  He 
felt  rather  than  saw  the  wilting  confidence  of  his  own 
counsel  and  when,  at  the  Court  recesses  he  was  led  back 
to  his  jail  lodgings  like  a  bear  on  an  organ  grinder's 
chain,  negroes  and  children  followed  him  in  little,  ex- 
cited crowds. 

Then  the  prosecution  rested  and  as  a  few  of  its 
perjuries  were  punctured,  the  faces  in  the  box  lightened 
their  scowl  a  little  —  but  very  little.  The  tide  had 
set  against  him,  and  he  knew  it.  Unless  one  of  those 
strangely  psychological  things  should  occur  which 
sweep  Juries  suddenly  from  their  moorings  of  fixed 
opinion,  he  must  be  the  sacrifice  to  Bluegrass  wrath, 
and  on  the  list  of  witnesses  under  the  hand  of  his  at- 
torney there  were  only  a  few  names  left  —  pitifully 
few. 

Then  Anse  Havey  saw  his  chief  counsel  set  his  jaw 
as  he  had  a  trick  of  setting  it  when  he  faced  a  forlorn 
hope,  and  throw  the  list  of  names  aside  as  something 
worthless.  As  the  lawyer  spoke  Anse  Havey's  face 
for  the  first  time  lost  its  immobility  and  showed  amaze- 
ment. He  bent  forward,  wondering  if  his  ears  had  not 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  313 

tricked  him.     His  attorneys  had  not  consulted  him  as 
to  this  step. 

"  Mr.   Sheriff,"  commanded  the  lawyer  for  the  de- 
fense, "  call  Miss  Juanita  Holland  to  the  stand." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IF  in  the  mountains  there  was  one  person  of  whom 
the  Bluegrass  knew  with  favor,  it  was  Juanita  Hol- 
land. She  had  worked  quietly  and  without  any 
blare  of  trumpets.  Her  efforts  had  never  been  ad- 
vertised, but  the  thing  she  was  trying  to  do  was  too 
unusual  a  thing  to  have  escaped  public  notice  and  pub- 
lic laudation.  That  she  was  spending  her  life  and  her 
own  large  fortune,  in  a  manner  of  self-sacrifice  and 
hardship,  was  a  thing  of  which  the  State  had  been  duly 
apprised. 

She  at  least  would  stand  acquitted  of  feudal  passion. 
She  stood  as  a  lone  fighter  for  the  spirit  of  all  that  was 
best  and  most  unselfish  in  Kentucky  ideals  and  the 
ideals  of  civilization. 

If  she  chose  to  come  now  as  a  character  witness  for 
Anse  Havey,  she  should  have  respectful  hearing.  The 
prisoner  bent  forward  and  fixed  eyes,  blazing  with  ex- 
citement, on  the  door  of  the  witness-room.  He  saw 
it  open  and  saw  her  pause  there,  rather  pale  and  per- 
plexed, then  she  came  steadily  to  the  witness  stand  and 
asked:  "  Do  I  sit  here ?" 

The  man  had  known  her  always  in  the  calico  and 
gingham  of  the  mountains.  This  seemed  a  different 
woman,  as  she  took  her  seat  and  raised  her  hand  to  be 
sworn.  She  was  infinitely  more  beautiful,  he  thought, 

in  the  habiliments  of  her  own  world.     She  seemed  a 

314 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  315 

queen  who  had  waived  her  regal  prerogatives  and  come 
into  this  mean  court-room  in  his  behalf.  His  heart 
leaped  into  tumult.  He  would  not  have  asked  her  to 
come;  would  not  have  permitted  her  to  submit  to  the 
heckling  of  the  prosecutor  whose  face  was  already 
drawing  into  a  vindictive  frown,  had  he  known.  She 
had  come  anyway  —  perhaps  after  all  she  cared !  If 
so  it  was  a  revelation  worth  hanging  for. 

Then  he  heard  her  voice,  low  and  quietly  pitched,  in 
answer  to  questions. 

"  I  have  known  Mr.  Havey,"  she  said  evenly,  "  ever 
since  I  went  to  the  mountains.  He  has  helped  me  in 
my  work  and  has  been  an  advocate  of  peace,  wherever 
peace  could  be  had  with  honor." 

At  the  end  of  each  answer  the  Commonwealth's  at- 
torney was  on  his  feet  with  quickly  snapped  objec- 
tions. Anse  Havey's  heart  sank.  He  knew  this  man's 
brutal  capacity  for  bullying  witnesses  and  he  had  never 
seen  a  woman  who  had  come  through  the  ordeal  un- 
shaken. Yet  slowly  the  anxiety  on  his  face  gave  way 
to  a  smile  of  infinite  admiration.  Juanita  Holland's 
quiet  dignity  made  the  testy  wrath  of  the  State's  lawyer 
seem  futile  and  peevish. 

The  defendant  saw  a  subtle  change  of  expression 
dawning  on  the  faces  of  the  Jury.  He  saw  them  shift- 
ing their  sympathy  from  the  lawyer  to  the  woman  and 
the  lawyer  saw  it,  too.  They  kept  her  there,  grilling 
her  by  all  the  tactics  known  to  artful  lawyers  for  an 
unconscionable  length  of  time,  but  to  each  brow-beat- 
ing question  she  returned  a  calm  and  unshaken  re- 
sponse. 

"  By   God ! "  exclaimed  Anse  Havey  to  himself  as 


316  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

he  leaned  forward,  "  she's  makin'  fools  of  'em  all  — 
an'  she's  doin'  it  for  me  1 " 

Even  the  Judge  whose  face  had  been  sternly  set 
against  the  defense  shifted  in  his  chair  and  his  expres- 
sion softened.  The  Commonwealth's  attorney  rose  and 
walked  forward,  and  Anse  Havey  clenched  his  hands 
under  the  table  while  his  fingers  itched  to  seize  the  tor- 
mentor's throat. 

"  You  don't  know  that  Anse  Havey  didn't  incite  this 
murder.  You  only  choose  to  think  so.  Isn't  that  a 
fact?  "  stormed  the  prosecutor. 

"  I  know  that  Anse  Havey  is  incapable  of  it,"  was 
the  tranquil  retort. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  know  him." 

"Who  procured  your  presence  in  this  court-room 
as  a  witness  for  the  defense? "  Each  interrogation 
came  with  rising  spleen  and  slurring  accusation  of  tone. 

"  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to  come." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  know  that  back  of  this  prosecution  lies 
the  trickery  which  seeks  to  dispose  of  Anse  Havey  so 
that  it  may  plunder  his  people." 

The  lawyer  wheeled  on  the  Judge. 

"  I  must  insist  that  your  Honor  admonish  this  wit- 
ness against  such  false  and  improper  charges  or  punish 
her  for  contempt,"  he  blazed  furiously. 

But  the  Judge  spoke  without  great  severity  as  he 
cautioned,  "  Yes  —  the  witness  must  not  seek  to  at- 
tribute motives  to  the  Commonwealth." 

If  Juanita,  however,  was  sustaining  with  no  outward 
show  of  discomfort  the  savage  onslaughts  of  a  man 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  317 

trained  in  the  art  of  confounding  those  who  sat  in  the 
pillory  of  the  witness-chair,  she  was  inwardly  feeling 
need  of  holding  her  emotions  masked  and  in  check.  As 
the  questions  became  more  and  more  personal,  and  she 
recognized  in  their  trend  the  purpose  of  making  her 
appear  biased,  she  first  flushed  a  little,  then  paled  a  lit- 
tle, but  her  voice  betrayed  no  hint  of  annoyance. 

The  attorney  took  another  step  forward  with  a  ma- 
licious smile.  He  paused  that  the  next  question  and 
its  answer  might  fall  on  the  emphasis  of  a  momentary 
silence.  He  pointed  a  finger  toward  the  girl  and  de- 
manded. 

"  Is  there  any  sentimental  attachment  between  you 
and  this  defendant,  Anse  Havey  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  dead  silence  in  the  court-room, 
and  Anse  saw  Juanita's  face  go  white.  Then  he  saw 
her  finger  nails  whiten  as  they  lay  in  her  lap  and  a  sud- 
den flush  spread  to  her  face. 

She  looked  toward  the  Judge,  and  at  once  the  lawyer 
for  the  defense  was  on  his  feet  with  the  old  objection: 
"  The  question  is  irrelevant." 

Then,  while  counsel  tilted  with  each  other,  the  girl 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  the  man  whose  life  was  in  the 
balance  turned  pale,  too,  not  because  of  this,  but  be- 
cause the  woman  he  loved  had  been  asked  the  question 
which  was  more  to  him  than  life  and  death  —  a  ques- 
tion he  had  never  dared  to  ask  himself. 

"  I  think,"  ruled  the  Court,  "  the  question  is  relevant 
as  tending  to  affect  the  credibility  of  the  witness." 

So  she  must  answer. 

The  prisoner's  finger  nails  bit  into  his  palms  and  he 
smothered  a  low  oath  between  his  clenched  teeth,  but 


818  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Juanita  Holland  only  looked  at  the  cross-examiner  with 
a  clear-eyed  and  serene  glance  of  scorn  under  which  he 
seemed  to  shrivel.  She  replied  with  the  dignity  of  a 
young  queen  who  can  afford  to  ignore  insults  from  the 
gutter. 

"  None  whatever." 

The  defendant  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  the  smile 
left  his  lips  like  writing  effaced  from  a  slate  with  a  wet 
sponge.  He  knew  that  his  case  was  won,  and  yet  as 
he  saw  her  leave  the  witness-stand  and  the  court-room, 
he  felt  sicker  at  heart  than  he  had  felt  since  he  could 
remember.  He  would  have  preferred  condemnation 
with  the  hope  against  hope  left  somewhere  deep  in  his 
heart,  that  there  slept  in  hers  an  echo  to  his  unuttered 
love. 

The  question  he  had  never  dared  to  ask,  she  had  an- 
swered; answered  under  oath  and  liberty  seemed  now  a 
very  barren  gift. 

When  he  had  been  acquitted  and  was  going  out  he 
saw  a  figure  in  consultation  with  the  prosecutor;  a 
figure  which  had  not  been  inside  the  doors  during  the 
trial.  It  was  Mr.  Trevor,  of  Louisville,  and  he  was 
testily  saying,  "  Oh,  well,  there  are  more  ways  of 
killing  a  cat  than  by  choking  it  with  butter." 

Anse  Havey  did  not  require  the  interpretation  of  an 
oracle  for  that  cryptic  comment.  He  knew  that  the 
effort  to  dispose  of  him  would  not  end  with  his  ac- 
quittal. 

Juanita  was  going  away  to  enlist  her  staff  of 
teachers  and  arrange  for  the  equipment  of  the  little 
hospital  and  the  man  did  not  tell  her  of  his  insecurity. 

"  You'll  promise  to  be  very  careful  while  I'm  away, 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  319 

won't  you?  "  she  demanded  as  they  sat  together  the 
night  before  she  left. 

"  I'll  try  to  last  till  you  get  back,"  he  smiled.  He 
was  sitting  with  a  pipe  in  his  hand  which  had  gone  out 
and  been  forgotten. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  porch  everything  was  vague, 
but  herself.  She  seemed  to  him  to  be  luminous  by 
some  light  of  her  own.  She  was  a  very  wonderful  and 
desirable  star,  shining  far  out  of  reach  of  his  world. 

Suddenly  she  laughed,  and  he  asked: 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  was  just  thinking  what  a  fool  I  was  when  I  came 
here,"  she  answered.  "  Did  you  know  that  I  brought 
a  piano  with  me  as  far  as  Peril?  It's  been  there  over 
a  year." 

"  A  piano ! "  he  echoed,  then  they  both  laughed. 

"  I  might  as  well  have  tried  to  bring  along  the 
Philadelphia  City  Hall,"  she  admitted.  "  Just  the  same 
there  have  been  times  when  it  would  have  meant  a  lot 
to  me,  an  awful  lot,  if  I  could  have  had  that  piano.  I 
don't  know  whether  music  means  so  much  to  you,  but 
to  me  — " 

"  I  know,"  he  broke  in.  "  I  sometimes  'low  that  life 
ain't  much  else  except  the  summin'  up  of  the  things  a 
feller  dreams.  Music  is  like  dreams  —  it  makes 
dreams.  Yes,  I  know  somethin'  about  that." 

She  went  away  and  though  she  was  not  long  gone, 
her  absence  seemed  interminable  to  Anse  Havey.  On 
her  return,  he  met  her  at  the  train,  with  a  starved 
idolatry  in  his  eyes  and  together  they  rode  back  across 
the  ridge. 

But  when  she  entered  the  building,  which  had  been 


320  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

the  first  school-house,  the  man  drew  back  a  step  or  two 
to  the  rear  and  watched  as  surreptitiously  as  a  boy 
who  has  in  due  secrecy  planned  a  surprise. 

She  went  in  and  then  suddenly  halted  and  stood 
near  the  threshold  in  amazement.  Her  eyes  began  to 
dance  and  she  gave  a  little  gasp  of  delight.  There 
against  one  wall  stood  her  piano. 

She  turned  to  find  Anse  Havey  waiting  in  the  door 
as  awkwardly  as  a  green  boy.  Just  how  difficult  a 
task  it  had  been  to  bring  that  great  weight  across  those 
roads  unharmed,  she  could  only  guess.  He  must  in 
effect  have  built  the  roads  before  him  as  Napoleon  built 
them  for  his  armies. 

She  turned  to  him,  deeply  moved,  and  after  the  first 
flush  of  delight,  her  eyes  were  misty. 

"  I  wonder  how  I  am  ever  going  to  thank  you, —  for 
everything,"  she  said  softly. 

But  Bad  Anse  Havey  only  answered  in  an  embar- 
rassed voice,  "  I  reckoned  it  might  be  a  little  jingly, 
so  I  had  a  feller  come  up  from  Lexington,  and  tune  it 
up." 

She  went  over  and  struck  a  chord,  then  she  came 
back  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  coat-sleeve. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  try  to  thank  you  at  all  —  now," 
she  said.  "  But  you  go  home  and  come  back  this  even- 
ing, and  we'll  have  a  little  party,  just  you  and  I  ... 
with  music." 

"  Good-by,"  he  said.  "  I  reckon  ye  haven't 
noticed  it  —  but  my  rifle's  standin'  there  in  your  rack." 

It  was  a  night  of  starlight  with  just  a  sickle  moon 
overhead,  and  the  music  of  the  whippoorwills  in  the  air 
when  Anse  presented  himself  again  at  the  school.  He 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  321 

knew  that  he  must  break  off  these  visits  because  while 
she  had  been  away  he  had  taken  due  accounting  of  him- 
self and  recognized  that  the  poignant  pain  of  locked 
lips  would  drive  him  beyond  control.  He  could  no 
longer  endure  "  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin." 
Now  the  sight  of  her  set  him  into  a  palpitating  fever 
and  a  burning  madness.  He  would  invent  some  excuse 
to-night  and  go  away. 

Then  he  came  to  the  open  door  and  stood  on  the 
threshold,  transfixed  by  the  sight  which  greeted  his 
eyes.  His  hat  dropped  to  the  floor  and  lay  there. 

He  thought  he  knew  Juanita.  Now  he  suddenly 
realized  that  the  real  Juanita  he  had  never  seen  before, 
and  as  he  looked  at  her  he  felt  infinitely  far  away  from 
her.  He  was  a  very  dim,  faint  star  in  apogee. 

She  sat  with  her  back  turned  and  her  fingers  stray- 
ing over  the  keys  of  the  piano  —  and  she  was  in  even- 
ing dress!  The  shaded  lamp  shone  softly  on  ivory 
shoulders  and  a  string  of  pearls  glistened  at  her  throat. 
Around  her  slim  figure,  the  soft  folds  of  her  gown  fell 
like  gossamer  draperies  and  she  was  flawlessly  beauti- 
ful. 

She  had  followed  a  whim  that  night  and  "  dressed 
up  "  to  surprise  him.  She  had  promised  him  a  party 
and  meant  to  receive  him  with  as  much  preparation  as 
she  would  have  made  for  royalty.  But  to  him  it  was 
only  a  declaration  of  the  difference  between  them,  em- 
phasizing how  unattainable  she  was ;  how  unthinkably 
remote  from  his  own  rough  world. 

Then  as  she  heard  his  steps  and  rose,  she  was  dis- 
appointed because  in  his  face  instead  of  pleasure  she 
read  only  a  tumult  whose  dominant  note  was  distress. 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

"  Don't  you  like  me  ?  "  she  asked  as  she  gave  him 
her  hand  and  smiled  up  at  him. 

'*  Like  you ! "  he  burst  out,  then  he  caught  himself 
with  something  like  a  gasp.  "  Yes,"  he  said  dully,  "  I 
like  you." 

For  a  while  she  played  and  sang  and  then  they  went 
out  to  the  porch  where  she  sank  down  in  the  barrel-stave 
hammock  which  hung  there  and  he  sat  in  a  split-bot- 
tomed chair  by  her  side. 

He  sat  very  moody  and  silent  with  his  hands  rest- 
ing on  his  knees,  trying  to  repress  what  he  could  not 
long  hope  to  repress. 

She  seemed  oblivious  to  his  deep  abstraction  for  she 
was  humming  some  air  —  low,  almost  under  her  breath. 

But  at  last  she  sat  up  and  laughed  a  silvery  and 
subdued,  yet  a  happy  little  laugh.  She  stretched  her 
arms  up  above  her  head.  "  It's  good  to  be  back, 
Anse,"  she  said  softly.  "  I've  missed  you  —  lots." 

He  dared  not  tell  her  how  he  had  missed  her  and  he 
did  not  recognize  the  new  note  in  her  voice  —  the  heart 
note.  There  was  a  strange  silence  between  them  and  as 
they  sat,  so  close  that  each  could  almost  feel  the  other's 
breath,  their  eyes  met  and  held  in  a  locked  gaze. 

Slowly  as  though  drawn  by  some  occult  power  over 
which  he  held  no  control  the  man  bent  a  little  nearer, 
a  little  nearer.  Slowly  the  girl's  eyes  dilated,  and 
then  with  no  word  she  suddenly  gave  a  low  exclamation, 
half  gasp,  half  appeal,  all  inarticulate,  and  both  hands 
went  groping  out  toward  him. 

With  something  almost  like  a  cry,  Anse  Havey  was 
on  his  knees  by  the  hammock,  and  both  his  arms  were 
around  her  and  her  head  was  on  his  shoulder.  Then 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  323 

he  was  kissing  her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  into  his  soul 
was  coming  a  sudden  discovery  with  the  softness  and 
coolness  of  the  flesh  his  lips  touched. 

It  lasted  only  a  moment,  then  she  pushed  him  back 
gently  and  rose  while  one  bare  arm  went  gropingly 
across  her  face,  and  the  other  hand  went  out  to  the 
porch  post  for  support. 

In  a  voice  low  and  broken  she  said,  "  You  must  go." 

"  No,"  he  exclaimed,  and  took  a  step  toward  her. 
But  she  retreated  a  little  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Yes,  dear  —  please,"  she  almost  whispered,  and  the 
man  bowed  in  acquiescence. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  gravely,  and,  picking  up  his 
hat,  he  started  across  the  ridge.  But  now  there  were 
no  ghosts  in  his  life  for  all  the  way  over  that  rough 
trail  he  was  looking  up  at  the  stars  and  incredulously 
telling  them  over  and  over  again,  "  She  loves  me ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

IN  a  small  room  over  the  post-office  in  Peril  an  at- 
torney, whose  professional  success  had  always 
been  precarious,  received  those  few  clients  who 
came  to  him  for  consultation.  The  lawyer's  name  was 
Walter  Hackley,  but  he  was  better  known  as  Clay-heel 
Hackley  because  he  never  wore  socks  and  his  bare 
ankles  were  tanned  to  the  hue  of  river-bank  mud.  His 
features  were  wizened  and  his  eyes  shifty.  He  was  a 
coward,  an  intriguer  by  nature  and  inclination.  It 
was  logical  enough  that  when  the  verdict  of  the  direc- 
tors' table  that  Bad  Anse  Havey  was  a  nuisance  fil- 
tered down  the  line,  the  persons  seeking  native  methods 
for  abating  the  nuisance  should  come  to  Clay-heel 
Hackley. 

One  day  in  August  this  attorney-at-law,  Jim  Fletcher 
and  a  tricky  youth,  who  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  hold- 
ing office  as  telegraph  operator  at  the  Peril  Station, 
caucused  together  in  Hackley's  dingy  room. 

In  the  death  of  Bad  Anse  Havey  this  trio  saw  a  j  oint 
advantage  since  the  abating  of  such  a  nuisance  would 
not  go  unrewarded. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  attorney,  his  wizened  face 
working  nervously,  "  this  business  has  need  to  be  ex- 
peditious. Gentlemen,  it  requires,  in  its  nature,  to  be 
expeditious.  A  few  more  failures  and  we  are 
for." 

•M 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  325 

"  Well,  tell  us  how  ye  aims  ter  do  hit,"  growled  the 
telegraph  operator. 

"  Jim  Fletcher  has  the  idea,"  replied  the  lawyer  im- 
pressively. "  Quite  the  right  idea.  How  many  men 
can  you  trust  on  a  job,  like  this,  Jim?  " 

"  As  many  as  ye  needs,"  was  the  confident  response. 
"  A  dozen  or  a  score  if  they're  wanted." 

"  Enough  to  make  it  sure,  but  not  too  many,"  urged 
Hackley.  "  We  should  set  a  day,  precisely  as  the 
Court  would  set  a  day  for  —  er  —  an  execution.  The 
force  you  send  out  should  simply  stay  on  the  job  until 
it's  done.  If  Anse  Havey  can  be  gotten  alone,  so  much 
the  better.  But  above  all — "  the  lawyer  paused  and 
spoke  with  his  most  forceful  emphasis — "don't  just 
wound  this  man.  See  that  the  thing  is  finally  and 
definitely  settled." 

"  I'll  be  there  myself,"  Jim.  Fletcher  assured  him. 
"Now,  when  is  this  day  goin'  ter  be?" 

"  This  is  Monday,"  reflected  the  attorney. 
"  There's  no  advantage  in  delay.  It  will  take  a  day 
or  two  to  get  ready.  Let  the  case  be  docketed,  as  I 
might  say  —  for  Thursday." 

After  the  evening  when  Anse  Havey  had  taken 
Juanita  in  his  arms  he  had  not  come  again  to  the  school. 

Juanita  had  not  understood  this  strange  absence  at 
such  a  time,  but  in  a  fashion  she  welcomed  it.  The  oc- 
currences of  that  night  were  still  unaccountable  to  her, 
and  she  wanted  time  to  think  the  thing  all  out  and  to 
take  an  inventory  of  her  life.  When  she  had  sworn 
that  there  was  no  sentiment  between  Anse  and  herself, 
she  had  believed  it.  While  she  had  been  away  in  the 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

East  she  had  found  herself  looking  about  always  for  a 
face  that  she  missed,  the  face  of  Bad  Anse  Havey. 
But  she  had  not  yet  diagnosed  that  as  love.  That 
night  had  been  one  of  unaccountable  hypnotism  and 
moon-madness.  Of  that  she  felt  sure  and  she  would 
tell  him  that  it  must  all  be  forgotten. 

If  it  were  a  real  awakening  to  love  it  was  still  too 
sudden  to  be  trusted  and  must  be  tested  by  time.  Yet 
even  now  at  the  thought  of  his  compelling  eyes  some- 
thing new  and  powerful  stirred  her. 

Anse  Havey  had  gone  to  Lexington.  Never  again 
did  he  mean  to  hold  against  himself  the  accusation  of 
"  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin."  He  knew  that 
she  loved  him.  He  knew  that  there  was  something  out 
of  which  resistance  would  come,  because  in  her  voice 
after  that  moment  in  his  arms,  there  had  been  a  pain 
and  a  wistfulness.  She  had  asked  him  to  go  and  he 
had  gone,  feeling  that  it  would  have  been  unkind  to  ques- 
tion her.  But  in  his  mind  had  been  only  one  question 
and  now  that  was  answered.  She  loved  him. 

Any  other  difficulty  that  the  world  held  he  would 
sweep  aside.  When  next  he  went  back  he  would  not 
ask  her  to  marry  him,  he  would  announce  to  her  that 
she  was  going  to  marry  him. 

In  Lexington  he  had  bought  a  ring  and  at  Peril  he 
had  gotten  a  marriage-license.  His  camp-following 
days  were  over.  He  had  one  youth  and  he  knew  that 
if  his  enemies  succeeded  in  their  designs,  this  might  at 
any  day  be  snapped  short  with  sudden  death.  It  did 
not  seem  to  him  that  one  of  its  golden  hours  should  be 
wasted. 

As  he  came  out  of  the  Court-house  with  the  invaluable 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  387 

piece  of  paper  in  his  pocket,  two  men,  seemingly  un- 
armed, rose  from  the  doorway  of  the  store  across  the 
street  and  drifted  toward  their  hitched  horses. 

Young  Milt  McBriar  had  ridden  over  to  Peril  that 
day,  with  several  companions,  and  Anse  Havey  went 
back  with  them.  So  it  happened  that  quite  acciden- 
tally he  made  that  journey  under  escort.  The  men 
who  rode  a  little  way  in  his  rear  cursed  their  luck — * 
and  waited.  And  though  they  lurked  in  hiding  all  that 
afternoon  near  Anse  Havey's  house  they  saw  nothing 
more  of  their  intended  victim. 

Anse  was  keenly  alive  to  each  day's  impending 
threat  and  when  he  had  recognized  the  face  of  Jim 
Fletcher,  in  Peril,  as  he  came  through  the  town  he  had 
read  mischief  in  the  eyes,  and  recognized  that  the 
menace  had  drawn  closer. 

So  when  he  was  ready  to  cross  the  ridge  to  the  school 
he  obeyed  an  old  sense  of  caution  and  left  his  horse 
saddled  at  the  front  fence  that  it  might  seem  as  if  he 
were  going  out  —  but  had  not  yet  gone. 

He  had  sent  by  messenger  a  summons  for  Good  Anse 
Talbott  and  the  preacher  arrived  while  he  was  at  his 
supper  table. 

"  Brother  Anse,"  he  announced,  "  I'm  goin'  to  need 
ye  some  time  betwixt  now  and  midnight.  I  want  ye  to 
tarry  here  till  I  come  back." 

"  What's  the  nature  of  business  ye  needs  me  fer, 
Anse  ?  "  demanded  the  missionary.  "  I  hadn't  hardly 
ought  ter  tarry.  Thar's  a  child  ailin'  up  the  top  fork 
of  little  branch  of  Turkey-Foot  Creek." 

But  Bad  Anse  only  shook  his  head.  "  It's  the  best 
business  ye  ever  did,"  he  confidently  assured  the 


328  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

preacher,  "  but  I  can't  tell  ye  yet.  Is  the  child  in 
any  danger?  "  • 

'*  I  reckon  not,  hit's  jest  ailin',  but  — " 

The  brown-faced  man  sat  dubiously  shaking  his  head, 
and  Anse's  features  suddenly  set  and  hardened. 

"I  needs  ye,"  he  said.  "Ain't  that  enough?  I'm 
goin'  to  need  ye  bad." 

"  That's  a  right-strong  reason,  Anse,  but  — " 

For  an  instant  the  old  dominating  will  which  had 
not  yet  learned  to  brook  mutiny,  leaped  into  Anse 
Havey's  eyes.  His  words  came  in  a  harsher  voice. 

"  Will  you  stay  of  your  own  free  will  because  I'm 
goin'  to  need  ye,  Brother  Anse?  "  he  demanded.  "  Be- 
cause, by  God,  ye're  goin'  to  stay  —  one  way  or  an- 
other." " 

"  Does  ye  mean  ye  aims  ter  hold  me  hyar  by  force  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  ye  make  me.  I  wouldn't  hardly  like  to 
do  that." 

For  a  moment  the  missionary  debated.  He  did  not 
resent  the  threat  of  coercion.  He  believed  in  Anse 
Havey  and  the  form  of  request  convinced  him  of  its 
urgency. 

So  he  nodded  his  head.  "  I'll  be  hyar  when  ye 
comes,"  he  said. 

Anse  left  his  house  that  night  neither  by  front  nor 
back,  but  in  the  dark  shadows  at  one  side,  and  his  talis- 
man of  luck  led  his  noiseless  feet  safely  between  the 
scattered  sentinels  who  were  watching  his  dwelling  to 
kill  him. 

It  was  a  brilliant  night  and  the  hollows  were  full  of 
moon  mist,  but  where  the  shadows  fell  they  fell  blackly. 

The  chorus  of  whippoorwills  and  night  music  sang 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  329 

to  him,  because  his  heart  was  very  full  of  joy.  The 
air  breathed  soft  passion  and  the  breeze  whispered  of 
love  as  it  harped  drowsily  in  the  jet  plumes  of  the  tree 
tops. 

A  spirit  of  languorous,  yet  powerful  appeal  rode 
with  the  mother-of-pearl  shimmer  of  the  clouds.  The 
silvery  luminance  of  the  moonlight  seemed  as  miraculous 
as  the  essence  of  dreams,  but  the  iron-gray  ridges,  pal- 
ing in  the  distance  to  misty  platinum,  were  immemorial 
pledges  of  permanence. 

Juanita  Holland  was  there  and  he  was  going  to  her 
and  after  to-night  she  should  be  Juanita  Havey! 

"No  to-morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now." 

He  noticed  as  he  passed  the  Widow  Everson's  cabin, 
that  it  was  dark  and  closed,  and  he  remembered  that 
she  and  her  family  had  gone  away  to  visit  friends  in 
town.  The  McNash  children,  even,  were  down  at  Jeb's 
cabin,  so  Juanita  was  quite  alone. 

The  school-buildings  slept  in  silent  shadows,  except 
that  from  the  open  door  of  the  room  where  her  piano 
stood,  there  came  a  soft  flooding  of  lamplight;  a  single 
dash  of  orange  in  the  nocturne  of  silver  and  gray.  He 
went  up  very  quietly,  pausing  to  drink  deep  of  the 
fragrance  of  the  honeysuckle,  and  there  drifted  out  to 
him  the  music  of  the  piano  and  the  better  music  of  her 
voice. 

She  was  singing  a  love-song. 

Though  he  had  sent  no  word  of  his  coming,  she  was 
once  more  in  evening  dress ;  all  black,  save  for  a  crim- 
son flower  at  her  breast  and  a  crimson  flower  in  her 


330  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

hair.  But  this  time  the  sight  of  her  in  the  costume  so 
foreign  to  the  hills  did  not  distress  him;  it  was  a  night 
that  called  for  wonders. 

She  rose  as  the  man's  footstep  sounded  on  the  floor 
and  then,  at  memory  of  their  last  meeting,  the  color 
mounted  richly  to  her  cheeks  and  he  took  her  again  in 
his  arms. 

She  raised  her  hands  to  his  shoulders  and  tried  to 
push  him  back,  but  he  held  her  firmly  and  while  she 
sought  to  tell  him  that  they  must  find  their  way  back 
to  the  colorless  level  of  friendship,  he  could  feel  the  wild 
flutter  of  her  heart. 

"  Listen,"  she  protested.  "  You  must  listen."  But 
Bad  Anse  Havey  laughed. 

"  Ever  since  the  first  time  I  saw  ye,"  he  declared, 
"  I've  been  listenin*.  It's  been  a  duel  always  between 
you  and  me.  But  the  duel's  over  now  an'  this  time  I 
win." 

She  looked  up  and  her  pupils  began  to  widen  with 
that  intense  expression  which  is  the  drawing  aside  of 
the  curtains  from  a  woman's  soul,  and  as  though  she 
realized  that  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  his  eyes  she 
turned  her  face  away.  Only  in  its  profile  could  he 
read  the  struggle  between  mind  and  heart  and  what  he 
read  filled  him  with  elation. 

"  Anse,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  give  me  a 
truce.  For  one  hour  let  me  think ;  it  involves  both  our 
lives  for  always;  let  me  at  least  have  the  chance  to  be 
sane.  Give  me  an  hour." 

The  man  stepped  back  and  released  her,  and  she 
turned  and  led  the  way  out  to  the  porch  where  she  sank 
down  in  the  hammock  with  her  face  buried  in  both 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  331 

hands.  When  she  looked  up  she  was  smiling  rather 
wanly. 

"  It  can't  be,  dear,"  she  said.  But  while  she  argued 
with  words  and  ostensible  reasons  the  night  was  argu- 
ing, too,  arguing  for  him  with  all  its  sense-steeping  fra- 
grances and  cadences  and  appeals  that  stirred  sleeping 
fires  in  their  hearts ! 

And  while  she  talked  he  made  no  response,  but  sat 
there  silently  attentive.  At  last  he  looked  at  his  watch 
and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket.  He  rose  and  said  quietly, 
but  with  a  tone  of  perfect  finality : 

"  Your  truce  is  over." 

"  But  don't  you  see  ?  You  haven't  answered  one  of 
my  arguments." 

Anse  Havey  laughed  once  more.     "  I  didn't  come  to 

•  argue,"  he  said,  "  I  came  to  act."     He  drew  from  his 

pocket  the  license  and  ring.     "  Brother  Anse  Talbott 

is  waitin'  over  at  my  house,"  he  said.     "  Will  you  go 

over  there  or  shall  I  go  back  an'  fetch  him  here  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

JUANITA  rose  from  the  hammock,  and  stood  un- 
steadily in  the  blue  moonlight;  an  image  of  ivory 
and    ebony.     The    man    clamped    both    hands    be- 
hind his  back  and  gripped  them  there  —  waiting.     But 
despite  his  seeming  of  confidence  and  calm  his  brain 
reeled  gloriously  with  an  intoxication  of  the  soul.     He 
saw  her  standing  there,  straight  and  lithe  and  slen- 
der, with  the  moon-washed  sky  at  her  back  and  the  inky 
shadows  of  the  porch  throwing  the  picture  into  a  vivid 
relief. 

He  saw  the  flower  on  her  breast  rise  and  fall  under 
the  quick  tumult  of  her  emotion.  He  saw  the  lips  he 
had  loved  so  long  half  parted,  and  he  knew  that  she 
must  yield  to  her  heart's  ultimatum.  He  saw  every- 
thing with  the  steady  eagle  eyes  that  held  and  fas- 
cinated her,  and  that  kindled,  as  she  gazed  into  them, 
with  a  flame  which  burned  invincibly  up  from  his  heart. 
He  saw  the  shadow  lace  of  the  vines  and  a  tracery  of 
trembling  leaves  on  a  drooping  maple  bough  beyond; 
he  saw,  in  the  distance,  mountain  shoulders  melting 
away  into  liquid  skies,  but  he  saw  all  these  things  only 
as  brush-strokes  in  the  background,  for  she  herself  was 
the  picture  that  his  soul  drank  through  his  eyes.  Soon 
he  must  crush  her  to  his  breast,  and  let  her  heart  beat 
there  against  his  own,  where  it  belonged. 

But  while  he  saw  so  much  she  could  see  only  two 
332 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  333 

eyes  that  were  fascinating,  hypnotizing  her,  until  all 
else  faded  and  they  seemed  twin  stars  drawing  her  to 
them  irresistibly  out  of  space  and  across  the  universe, 
swinging  her  will  as  the  moon  swings  the  tides. 

She  took  an  involuntary  step  toward  him  with  lifted 
arms,  and  then  with  a  strong  effort  as  if  struggling 
against  a  spell,  she  drew  back  again,  and  her  voice 
came  very  low  and  broken. 

"  I  can't  —  I  can't !  "  she  pleaded.  "  But  I  wish  to 
God  I  could." 

Then  Anse  Havey  began  to   speak. 

"  Ye've  talked  an'  I've  listened  to  ye.  Ye've  taken 
my  life  away  from  me  an'  made  it  a  little  scrap  of 
your  own  life.  .  .  .  Ye've  let  us  both  come  to  needin' 
each  other  more  than  food  an'  drink  an'  breath.  .  .  . 
For  me  there's  no  life  without  ye.  In  all  the  earth, 
there's  just  you  —  you  —  you!  For  every  true 
woman  in  the  world  a  day  comes  when  there's  just  one 
man,  an'  for  every  man  there's  just  one  woman.  .  .  . 
When  that  day  comes  nothin'  else  counts.  That's  why 
all  them  reasons  of  yours  don't  mean  anything." 

His  voice  had  the  ring  of  triumph.  "  You're  goin'  to 
marry  me  to-night.  Come !  " 

He  raised  both  arms  and  held  them  out,  and  though 
for  a  moment  she  hung  back  her  eyes  were  still  irre- 
sistibly held  by  his  and  the  magnetism  that  dwelt  in 
them.  With  a  gasping  exclamation  that  was  half  sur- 
render and  half  echo  of  his  own  triumph,  she  swept  into 
his  embrace. 

About  them  the  world  swam  and  danced  to  the  harp- 
ing of  the  stars.  She  knew  only  that  she  had  come 
home  and  that,  resting  here  with  those  arms  about  her 


334  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

against  that  strong  breast,  she  felt  safe  and  deliriously 
happy.  He  felt  her  throbbing  heart-beat;  felt  the 
warmth  of  her  fluttering  breath  on  his  cheek;  felt  the 
softness  of  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  the  miraculous 
touch  of  her  answering  lips  on  his  own. 

A  stray  lock  fell  over  her  brow  and  its  strands  en- 
meshed his  kisses  against  her  face.  How  could  she 
who  was  so  frail  and  yielding  in  his  tight-locked  arms 
have  been  so  powerful?  How  could  a  creature  whose 
touch  was  as  cool  and  soft  as  sentient  velvet  have  re- 
duced him  to  this  slavery  which  made  him  a  king? 
Then  proudly  he  answered  himself.  It  was  because 
she  was  the  one  woman ;  because  her  delicately  fibered 
being  had  a  strength  beyond  his  brawn ;  because  she 
was  the  stronger  for  being  weaker. 

But  after  a  time,  she  drew  back  a  little  so  that  she 
could  look  up  again  into  his  face,  and  with  his  arms 
about  her  and  her  arms  about  his  neck,  she  smiled  out 
of  eyes  that  swam  as  mistily  as  the  moon  and  as 
brightly,  and  lips  that  no  longer  held  a  hint  of  droop- 
ing. 

As  she  locked  her  fingers  caressingly  behind  his  dark 
head,  she  wished  for  words  fine  and  splendid  beyond  the 
ordinary  to  tell  him  of  her  love.  But  no  phrases  of 
eloquence  came.  So  she  found  herself  murmuring 
those  ancient  words  of  willing  surrender,  that  have  be- 
come trite  because  they  have  not  been  improved 
upon  — "  Thy  people  shall  be  my  people  and  thy  ways, 
my  ways." 

Then  she  felt  his  arms  grow  abruptly  rigid  and  he 
was  pressing  her  from  him  with  a  gentle  insistence 
while  his  face  turned  to  peer  out  into  the  moonlight 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  335 

with  the  tensity  of  one  who  is  listening  not  only  with 
his  ears,  but  every  sensory  nerve  of  his  being. 

Slowly  he  drew  back,  still  tense  and  alert,  and  from 
his  eyes  the  tender  glow  died  until  they  narrowed  and 
hardened  and  the  jaw  angle  stiffened  and  the  lips  drew 
themselves  into  their  old  line  of  warlike  sternness.  She 
was  looking  again  into  the  face  of  the  mountaineer; 
the  feudist;  of  the  wild  creature  turning  to  stand  at 
bay. 

For  a  moment  they  remained  motionless,  and  her 
fingers  resting  on  his  arms  felt  the  strain  of  his  taut- 
ened biceps. 

"  God ! "  he  muttered  almost  inaudibly. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  whispered,  but  he  replied  only 
with  a  warning  shake  of  the  head. 

Once  more  he  stood  listening,  then  gently  turned  her 
so  that  his  body  was  between  her  and  the  outside.  He 
thrust  her  back  into  the  open  door  and  followed  her 
inside. 

His  words  came  slowly  and  though  they  were  calm 
they  carried  a  very  bitter  note. 

"  I  must  go.  ...  I  hoped  they'd  let  me  live  long 
enough  to  marry  ye,  but  I  reckon  they're  weary  of 
bidin'  their  time." 

He  had  closed  the  door  and  stood  looking  down  at 
her  with  a  deep  hunger  in  his  face. 

"  What  is  it,  Anse?  What  did  you  hear  out  there?  " 
Her  face  had  gone  pallid  and  she  clung  to  his  arms  with 
a  grip  that  indicated  no  intention  of  release. 

"  Nothin'  much.  Just  the  crackin'  of  a  twig  or 
two;  just  some  steps  in  the  brush  that  was  too 
cautious  to  sound  honest;  little  noises  that  wouldn't 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

mean  much  if  I  didn't  know  what  they  do  mean.  They 
weren't  friendly  sounds.  They're  after  me." 

"Who?     What  do  you  mean?" 

Her  voice  came  in  a  low  panic  of  whispering,  and 
even  as  she  spoke  the  man  was  listening  with  his  head 
bent  toward  the  closed  door. 

He  laughed  mirthlessly  under  his  breath.  "  I  don't 
know  who  they've  picked  out  to  get  me.  It  don't  mat- 
ter much,  does  it  ?  But  I  know  they've  picked  to-night. 
I've  been  lookin'  for  it,  but  it  seems  like  they  might  have 
let  me  have  to-night  — "  His  lips  smiled  and  for  an 
instant  his  eyes  softened  again  to  tenderness.  "  This 
was  my  night;  our  night." 

"  If  they  are  out  there,  Anse,"  her  eyes  flashed  sud- 
denly and  her  grip  tightened,  "  you  sha'n't  go.  I  won't 
let  you  go.  In  this  house  you  are  behind  walls  at  least. 
I  can't  let  you  go." 

"  It's  the  only  way,"  he  told  her ;  and  again  she  read 
unshakable  resolve  written  in  his  face.  "  My  best 
chance  is  out  there.  Them  mountains'll  take  better 
care  of  me  than  any  walls  —  if  I  can  once  get  to  cover." 
Suddenly  he  wheeled  and  caught  her  fiercely  in  his 
arms,  holding  her  very  close,  and  now  her  heart  was 
beating  more  wildly  than  before ;  beating  with  a  sud- 
den and  sickening  terror. 

He  bent  low  and  covered  her  temples  and  cheeks  and 
lips  and  eyes  with  kisses.  "  God  knows,  when  I  came 
here,  to-night,"  he  declared,  talking  fast  and  pas- 
sionately, "  I  didn't  aim  to  ever  go  away  again  without 
ye.  Now  I've  got  to,  but  if  I  come  through  an'  there's 
a  breath  or  a  drop  of  blood  left  in  me,  I'll  be  back. 
I'm  a-comin'  back,  dearest,  if  I  live." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  337 

Her  answer  was  a  low  moan. 

He  released  her  at  last  and  went  over  to  the  gun- 
rack. 

Standing  before  her  shrine  of  guns,  in  her  temple  of 
disarmament,  he  said  slowly,  "  Dearest,  I  was  about 
the  last  man  to  leave  my  rifle  here,  an'  I  reckon  I've 
got  to  be  the  first  to  take  it  out  again.  I'm  sorry. 
Will  you  give  it  to  me  or  must  I  take  it  without  per- 
mission ?  " 

She  came  slowly  over,  conscious  that  her  knees  were 
trembling,  and  that  ice-water  seemed  to  have  taken  the 
place  of  hot  blood  in  her  veins. 

"  If  you  need  it,"  she  faltered,  "  take  it,  dear  —  noth- 
ing else  matters.  Which  one  shall  I  give  you  ?  " 

"  My  own ! "  His  voice  was  for  the  instant  im- 
perious. It  was  almost  as  if  someone  had  asked 
Ulysses  what  bow  he  would  draw  in  battle.  "  I  reckon 
my  own  gun's  good  enough  fer  me.  It  has  been  till 
to-day." 

She  withdrew  the  rifle  from  the  rack  herself,  and  he 
took  it  from  her  trembling  hands,  but  when  he  had  ac- 
cepted it  she  threw  her  arms  about  him  again  and 
wildly  clung  to  him,  her  eyes  wide  with  silent  suffering 
and  dread. 

The  crushing  grasp  of  his  arms  hurt  her  and  she 
felt  a  wild  joy  in  the  pain.  Then  she  resolutely  whis- 
pered, "  Go,  dearest,  go !  Time  is  precious  now,  and 
God  keep  you ! " 

"  Juanita,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  have  refused  to  talk 
to  you  in  good  speech.  I  have  clung  to  the  rough 
phrases  and  the  uncouth  manners  of  the  hills,  but  I 
want  you  to  know  always,  most  dear,  that  I  have  lovecl 


338  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

you  not  only  fiercely,  but  gently,  too.  No  tenderer  wor- 
ship lives  in  your  own  world.  If  I  don't  come  back 
think  of  that.  God  knows  I  love  you." 

"  Don't,  Anse ! "  she  cried  with  a  smothered  sob. 
"  Don't  talk  like  a  soft-muscled  lowlander !  Talk  to 
me  in  your  own  speech.  It  rings  of  strength  and  God 
knows — "  her  voice  broke  and  she  added  with  fierce 
tenderness  — "  God  knows,  dear  eagle-heart,  you  need 
all  the  strength  of  wing  and  talon  to-night." 

Then  she  opened  the  back  door  very  cautiously  where 
the  shadows  slept  in  inky  blackness  and  saw  him  slip 
away  and  melt  instantly  into  the  murk. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

OUT  there  the  moon  was  setting.  Soon,  thank 
God,  it  would  be  dark  everywhere.  The  man  she 
loved  needed  all  the  chance  that  the  thickening 
murk  could  give  him.  It  was  terribly  quiet  now,  ex- 
cept for  an  occasional  whippoorwill  call,  and  the 
quietness  seemed  to  lie  upon  her  with  the  oppression 
of  something  unspeakably  terrifying.  The  breath  of 
hillside  and  sky  was  bated. 

At  last  there  came  to  her  ears  the  sound  of  heavy 
feet  crashing  through  the  brush,  but  he  had  been  gone 
ten  minutes  then.  Perhaps  they  had  just  awakened  to 
his  escape  and  were  casting  aside  stealth  for  the  fury 
of  open  pursuit.  She  even  thought  she  heard  an  oath 
once,  and  then  it  was  all  quiet  again ;  quiet  for  a  while 
and  at  the  end  of  the  silence,  like  the  punctuation  of 
an  exclamation  mark,  came  the  far-away  snap  of  a 
rifle. 

She  had  dropped  to  a  chair  and  sat  there  tensely 
leaning  forward,  her  lips  parted  and  her  ears  straining. 
Had  she  heard  one  shot  and  its  echoes  or  had  there 
been  several?  Her  imagination  and  fears  were  playing 
her  tricks  now  and  she  could  hardly  be  certain  of  her 
senses. 

Once  she  started  violently  with  the  sense  that  she 
had  heard  his  voice  exclaim,  '*  God !  "  as  he  had  mut- 
tered it  out  there  on  the  porch,  but  of  course  that  was 

839 


840  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

only  a  reaction  of  memory.  She  closed  her  eyes,  but 
that  made  the  agonized  suspense  of  her  waiting  worse 
a  hundred-fold,  for  when  the  familiar  things  of  the  hall 
were  shut  out  other  things  came.  In  her  fancy  she 
saw  him  lying  among  the  rocks  and  tangled  branches, 
wounded  desperately  and  seeking  to  hold  back  swarms 
of  enemies  who  drew  closer  and  closer  about  him  with 
their  cordon  of  blazing  rifles.  She  could  see  the  grim 
doggedness  with  which  he  was  dying  and  the  grim  dog- 
gedness  with  which  they  were  killing  him.  But  he 
would  not  die  alone!  He  would  take  his  own  toll  first. 

Then  she  pulled  herself  together.  She  must  hold  on 
to  her  faculties.  In  the  way  of  such  imaginings  lay 
madness!  Come  what  might  he  was  the  strongest  of 
them  all  and  the  most  consummate  woodsman.  He 
would  elude  them.  They  were  like  crows  badgering 
and  hectoring  a  great  hawk  in  flight,  and  only  succeed- 
ing in  annoying  him.  The  hawk  had  only  to  alight  and 
face  them  and  they  would  fly  wildly  away. 

And  yet  an  insistent  little  advocate  of  despair  kept 
whispering  to  her  heart;  suppose  there  were  so  many 
crows,  that  the  hawk  could  not  alight!  It  would  not 
do  to  follow  that  train  of  thought  either.  She  and 
Anse  had  once  stood  together  on  the  crest,  watching  the 
darting  attack  of  several  of  the  black  pests  as  they 
hovered  about  the  spread  pinions  of  an  eagle,  until  the 
eagle  fled  high  into  the  sky. 

"  Why  doesn't  he  kill  one  or  two  ?  "  she  had  irritably 
demanded  and  the  man  only  laughed. 

"  Have  the  mountains  got  into  your  blood  ?  Have 
ye  got  the  killin'  instinct,  too?" 

She  had  been  indignant  at  the  question,     Yet  now 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  341 

she  was  praying  that  he,  her  mate  of  the  windy  crests, 
should  kill  and  conquer.  If  anyone  had  fallen  un- 
der that  shot  she  heard,  God  grant  that  it  might  be  one 
of  his  assailants.  Yes,  for  the  first  time  she  knew  now 
that  in  her  heart,  too,  had  wakened  a  germ  of  that  killing 
instinct  that  heights  and  desolation  breed  and  breathe 
into  the  human  breath.  Mixed  and  tangled  with  her 
fear  and  grief  was  something  of  the  ecstasy  of  war, 
prophetess  of  peace  and  disarmament  though  she  was. 

The  passage  of  time  was  a  thing  of  which  she  had 
lost  count.  Each  moment  was  a  century.  Her  eyes 
wandered  absently  over  the  room  and  fell  upon  the 
piano.  He  had  brought  it  for  her  from  Peril.  She 
turned  her  glance  away  from  that  reminder  only  to 
have  it  fall  on  the  spread  eagle  wings  above  the  mantel. 
He  had  told  her  how  many  years  that  bird  had  preyed 
and  pillaged  and  how  long  he  had  hunted  it  before  it 
fell  at  last  under  his  rifle.  Now  he,  too,  was  out  there, 
being  hunted.  She  groaned  horribly  and  fell  to  trem- 
bling. 

She  knew  that  she  hungered  for  this  man.  Why  had 
she  waited  too  long?  Why  had  she  been  so  tardy  in 
discovering  her  own  heart?  At  least  she  might  have 
had  memories. 

Her  thoughts  ran  into  pictures  of  what  life  together 
might  mean  for  them,  their  companionship  in  the  high, 
wild  places,  where  each  had  work  to  do.  She  wanted 
her  "  hunter  home  from  the  hill." 

A  great  oak  table,  fashioned  in  keeping  with  the 
massiveness  of  the  house,  stood  before  her.  On  its  top 
was  a  littered  array  of  papers  and  heavy  volumes,  dic- 
tionaries, encyclopaedias  and  a  copy  of  Fox's  "  Book  of 


THE  BATTLE  CRY 

Martyrs."  These  things  all  seemed  to  be  an  accusation 
now.  They  were  as  much  the  symbols  of  what  she  had 
done  in  the  mountains,  as  the  rood  over  a  steeple  is  the 
symbol  of  a  church.  And  what  had  it  all  come  to? 
The  last  act  of  the  drama  she  had  staged  was  being 
brought  to  climax  out  in  the  dark  woods  where  the 
man  she  loved  was  trailed  by  human  blood-hounds,  set 
on  the  chase  by  captains  of  progress. 

Then  with  a  violent  start  she  sat  up.  Now  she  knew 
she  heard  a  sound;  there  could  be  no  doubt  this  time. 
It  came  from  out  beyond  the  front  door,  and  she  bent 
forward,  listening. 

It  was  a  strange  sort  of  sound  which  she  could  not 
make  out,  but  in  some  subtle  way  it  was  more  terrifying 
than  the  clatter  of  rifles.  It  was  as  if  some  heavy,  soft 
thing  were  being  dragged  up  the  steps,  and  rolling 
back.  She  rose  and  took  a  step  to  the  door,  but  halted 
in  doubt.  The  sound  died  and  then  came  again,  always 
with  halting  intervals  of  silence  between,  as  though 
whoever  were  dragging  the  burden  had  to  pause  on 
each  step  to  rest.  Then  there  was  a  scraping  as  of 
boot  leather  on  the  boards  and  a  labored  breath  out- 
side, a  breath  that  seemed  to  be  agonized.  She  bent 
forward  with  one  hand  outstretched  toward  the  latch 
and  heard  a  faint  rapping.  It  was  seemingly  the  rap 
of  very  feeble  fingers,  but  that  might  all  be  part  of  a 
ruse.  Was  it  a  friend  or  an  enemy  out  there  just  be- 
yond the  thickness  of  the  heavy  panels?  At  all  events 
she  must  see. 

She  braced  herself  and  threw  the  door  open.  A 
figure  which  had  been  leaning  against  it  lurched  for- 
ward, stumbled  over  the  threshold  and  fell  in  a  heap 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  343 

half  in  and  half  out.  It  was  the  figure  of  Anse 
Havey. 

How  far  he  had  hitched  himself  along  foot  by  foot 
like  a  mortally  wounded  animal  crawling  home  to  die, 
she  could  not  tell,  but  for  one  horrified  instant  she 
stood  gazing  down  on  him  in  stupefaction.  He  had 
gone  out  a  splendid  vital  creature  of  resilient  strength 
and  power.  He  had  come  back  the  torn  and  bleeding 
wreck  of  a  man,  literally  shot  to  pieces  as  a  quail  is 
shattered  when  it  rises  close  to  a  quick-shooting  gun. 

In  the  next  moment  she  was  stooping  with  her  arms 
around  his  body,  striving  to  lift  his  weight  and  bring 
him  in.  She  was  strong  beyond  all  seeming  of  her 
slenderness,  but  the  man  was  heavy  and  as  she  raised 
his  head  and  shoulders  a  sound  of  bitten-off  and  stifled 
agony  escaped  his  white  lips  and  she  knew  that  her  ef- 
forts were  torturing  him. 

It  was  an  almost  lifeless  tongue  that  whispered,  "  I 
was  skeered  .  .  .  that  I  ...  wouldn't  get  here." 

Then  as  she  staggered  under  his  inert  bulk  he  tried  to 
speak  again.  "  Jest  help  .  .  .  drag  me." 

The  few  yards  into  the  hall  were  a  long  and  terrible 
journey,  and  how  she  got  him  in,  half  hanging  to  her, 
half  crawling,  stopping  at  every  step,  she  never  knew. 
Still  it  was  done  at  last  and  she  was  kneeling  on  the 
floor  with  his  head  on  her  breast. 

No  wonder  they  had  left  him  for  dead  and  gone  away 
content,  He  looked  up  and  a  faint  smile  came  to  his 
almost  unrecognizable  face.  The  blood  which  had  al- 
ready dried  and  caked  with  the  dust  through  which  he 
had  crawled  was  being  fed  by  a  fresher  out-pouring, 
and,  as  she  held  him  close  to  her,  her  own  bosom  and 


344  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

arms  became  red,  too,  with  the  spilling  life  current,  as 
red  as  the  flower  pinned  in  her  hair. 

She  must  stanch  his  wounds  and  pour  whisky  down 
his  throat,  before  the  flickering  wisp  of  life-flame 
burned  out. 

"  Wait,  dearest,"  she  said  in  a  broken  voice.  "  I 
must  get  things  you  need." 

"  It  ain't  — "  he  paused  a  moment  for  the  breath 
which  came  very  difficultly  — "  hardly  .  .  .  worth 
while  .  .  .  I'm  done." 

But  she  flew  to  the  cupboard  where  there  was  brandy. 
She  tore  linen  from  her  petticoart  and  brought  water 
from  the  drinking  bucket  that  stood  with  its  gourd 
dipper  on  the  porch. 

But  when  she  pressed  the  flask  to  his  lips  he  closed 
them  and  shook  his  head  a  little. 

"  I  ain't  never  touched  a  drop  in  my  life,"  he  said, 
"  an'  I  reckon  ...  I  might's  well  .  .  .  finish 
out.  .  .  .  'Twon't  be  long."  For  a  while  he  lay  gasp- 
ing, then  spoke  again  weakly. 

"  Just  kiss  me  ...  dearest  .  .  .  thet's  what  I  come 
for." 

She  went  on  bathing  and  stanching  his  wounds  as 
best  she  could,  but  a  spirit  of  despair  settled  on  her. 
There  were  so  many  of  them  and  they  were  so  deep  and 
ragged ! 

"  I  didn't  .  .  .  come  for  help,"  he  told  her  and 
through  the  grime  and  blood  flashed  a  ghost  of  his  rare 
and  boyish  smile.  "  I'm  past  mendin'  now  ...  I  came 
because  .  .  .  I'm  dyin'  .  .  .  -an'  I  wanted  thet  your 
arms  .  .  .  should  be  around  me  ...  once  more." 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  345 

"  You  sha'n't  die,"  she  breathed  fiercely  between  her 
teeth.  "  My  arms  shall  always  be  around  you." 

But  he  shook  his  head  and  his  figure  sagged  a  little 
against  her  knees. 

"  I  know  .  .  .  when  I'm  done  .  .  ."  he  said  slowly. 
"  It's  all  right  now.  .  .  .  I've  done  got  here.  That's 
enough  ...  I  loves  ye." 

For  a  time  she  wondered  whether  he  had  lost  con- 
sciousness, and  she  laid  him  down  slowly  and  brought 
cushions  with  which  to  soften  his  position.  It  was  al- 
most daybreak  now. 

She  sat  there  beside  him  and  as  her  heart  beat  close 
to  his  he  seemed  to  draw  from  it  some  of  its  abundant 
vitality,  for  he  revived  a  little,  and  though  his  eyes 
were  closed  and  she  had  to  bend  down  to  catch  his 
words  his  voice  grew  somewhat  stronger. 

"  I  ain't  never  felt  lonesome  .  .  .  before  .  .  .  but 
out  there  .  .  .  dyin'  by  myself  .  .  .  the  last  of  my 
family  ...  I  was  ...  I  had  to  come.  .  .  .  Dyin' 
ain't  like  livin'.  ...  I  had  to  see  ye  once  more." 

"  You  aren't  dying,"  she  argued  desperately,  "  you 
sha'n't  die." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I'm  dyin'  ...  an'  now  the  sooner 
.  .  .  the  better  ...  I  reckon." 

She  bent  lower  and  held  him  very  gently  close  to  her 
heart.  "  You  are  suffering  horribly,  dearest,"  she 
groaned. 

"  It  ain't  that.  .  .  ."  His  breath  came  with  great 
difficulty.  "  They'll  come  back  here.  They'll  get  me 
yet  ...  an'  I'd  ruther  die  first." 

She  laid  his  head  very  gently  on  the  pillows  and  rose 


346  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

to  her  feet.  In  the  instant  she  stood  transfigured. 
Deep  in  her  violet  eyes  blazed  such  a  blue  fire  as  that 
which  burns  at  the  hot  heart  of  a  flame.  Around  her 
lips  came  the  grim  set  of  fight  and  blood-lust. 

The  crushed  flower  on  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  under 
a  quick  tempest  of  passion.  The  skirt  of  her  evening 
gown  had  been  torn  in  her  effort  to  carry  him.  Some- 
how one  silk  stocking  had  sagged  above  her  slipper. 
His  blood  reddened  her  white  arms  and  bosom.  She 
drew  a  deep  breath  and  clenched  her  hands.  The  dis- 
ciple of  Peace  was  gone  and  there  stood  now  in  its 
stead  the  hot-breathed  incarnation  of  some  Valkyrie 
hovering  over  the  din  of  battle  and  urging  on  the  fight. 

Yet  her  voice  was  colder  and  steadier  than  he  had 
ever  heard  it.  She  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Get  you !  "  she  exclaimed  scornfully.  "  No  man 
but  a  Havey  crosses  that  threshold  while  I  live.  I'm 
a  Havey  now  and  we  both  live  or  we  both  die  together. 
Get  you !  "  Her  voice  broke  with  a  wild  laugh.  "  Let 
them  come ! " 

No  bitterly  bred  daughter  of  the  hills  was  ever  so 
completely  the  mountain  woman  as  this  transformed 
and  re-born  girl  of  the  cultured  East.  She  moved  about 
the  place  with  a  steady,  indomitable  energy.  With 
strength  borrowed  of  the  need  she  upset  the  great  oaken 
table  and  barricaded  the  door,  laughing  as  she  heard 
the  clatter  of  pedagogic  volumes  on  the  floor.  Fox's 
"  Book  of  Martyrs  "  fell  at  her  feet  and  she  kicked  it 
to  the  side. 

She  went  and  stood  before  her  rack  of  guns  and  he* 
lips  curled  as  she  caught  one  up  with  all  the  fierce  desire 
of  a  drunkard  for  his  drink.  She  stood  there,  loading 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  847 

rifles  and  setting  them  in  an  orderly  line  against  the 
wall.  She  devastated  her  altar  of  peace  with  the  un- 
tamed joy  of  a  barbarian  sacking  a  temple. 

Then  she  turned  and  saw  in  the  man's  eyes  a  wild 
glow  of  admiration  that  burned  hotly  above  his  fever, 
and  she  said  to  him,  once  more,  "  Now  let  'em  come." 

He  shook  his  head,  but  strangely  enough  her  love 
and  awakened  ferocity  had  strengthened  him  like  brandy, 
and  he  pleaded,  "  Drag  me  over  where  I  can  get  just 
one  shot." 

Then  Juanita  blew  out  the  lamp  and  stood  silent  in 
the  hush  that  comes  before  dawn.  She  did  not  have  to 
wait  long,  for  soon  she  heard  hoof-beats  in  the  road,  and 
they  stopped  just  at  the  turn. 

"  Hello,  stranger ! "  she  shouted,  and  it  took  all  her 
strength  to  command  her  voice.  "  Halt  where  you 
are." 

There  was  an  instant's  silence  in  the  first  misty  gray 
that  was  bringing  the  veiled  sunrise. 

A  stifled  murmur  of  voices  came  from  the  road,  and 
she  caught  the  words,  "  He's  in  thar  all  right."  A  mo- 
ment later  someone  called  out  sullenly  from  the  shadows. 

"  We  gives  ye  three  minutes  ter  leave  thet  house. 
We're  a-comin'  in  an'  we'd  rather  not  ter  harm  ye. 
Git  out  quick." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

can't  save  me,  dearest ;  it's  too  late  for  that. 
For  God's  sake  go  out,"  pleaded  Anse  Havey 
tensely. 

Her  answer  was  to  cry  out  into  the  dawn  in  a  voice 
that  could  not  be  misunderstood,  "  Anse  Havey's  in 
here.  Come  and  get  him.  Damn  you!"  and  for 
added  emphasis,  she  crouched  behind  the  overturned 
table  and  fired  a  random  shot  out  toward  the  voice  that 
had  offered  her  amnesty. 

From  the  earlier  chapters  of  the  evening  the  men 
out  there  knew  that  the  school  property  was  empty 
save  for  the  man  and  the  girl,  and  they  knew  that  the 
man  was  wounded. 

Their  peering  eyes,  in  the  dim  gray  of  dawn,  could 
just  make  out  an  empty  door.  Back  of  it  was  one 
woman,  and  they  were  five  men.  Ordinarily  they  would 
have  moved  slowly  and  cautiously,  coming  up  from  sev- 
eral sides,  but  now  every  minute  was  worth  an  hour  at 
another  time.  It  behooved  them,  when  full  daylight 
came,  to  be  well  away  on  their  flight  from  sure  venge- 
ance. The  obvious  demand  of  the  exigency  was  to  rush 
the  place. 

Killing  women  was,  even  to  them,  distasteful,  but  they 
had  offered  her  immunity  and  she  had  declined. 

At  a  whispered  word  they  started  forward. 

They  had  only  fifty  yards  of  clearing  to  cross  and 

348 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  349 

the  girl  crouching  behind  the  overturned  table  did  not 
know  how  strong  they  might  be  in  numbers.  She  knew 
only  that  in  every  artery  ran  a  white  fire  of  passion 
and  a  longing  to  avenge.  She  meant  to  make  her  Shrine 
of  Disarmament  a  crater  of  death  under  whose  lava  no 
human  creature  could  live.  She  remembered  the  cau- 
tion of  a  man  with  whom  she  had  once  shot  quail. 
"  Take  your  time  when  they  rise  and  pick  your  birds." 
Now  Juanita  Holland  meant  to  pick  her  birds. 

She  saw  figures  climbing  the  fence  in  shadowy,  al- 
most impalpable  shapes,  and  as  the  first  dropped  inside 
and  started  on  at  a  crouching  trot,  she  aimed  quickly, 
but  steadily,  and  fired. 

A  little  cry  of  primitive  and  savage  joy  leaped  from 
her  lips  as  she  saw  the  man  plunge  forward  in  the  half 
light  and  lie  there  thrashing  about  on  the  ground. 
Once  an  English  army  officer  had  told  her,  in  a  draw- 
ing-room, that  a  soldier  feels  no  sense  of  compunction 
when  an  enemy  goes  down  under  his  hand  in  battle. 
She  had  raised  her  chin  a  little  and  turned  coolly  away, 
feeling  for  such  a  man  only  distaste.  Now  she  under- 
stood. 

But  at  that  warning  the  others  leaped  down  and  came 
on  at  a  run.  The  tempo  quickened  and  became  confusing. 
They  were  firing  as  they  ran  and  their  answering  bullets 
pelted  against  her  barrier  and  over  her  head  on  the 
walls.  She  heard  window  panes  shivering  and  glass 
falling,  and  yet  her  elation  grew  —  two  more  advanc- 
ing figures  had  crumpled  into  inert  masses.  Unless 
there  were  reinforcements  she  would  stem  their  on-com- 
ing tide.  Even  a  mountain  marksman  cannot  target  his 
shots  well  while  he  is  running  and  under  fire.  It  takes 


350  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

championship  sprinting  to  do  fifty  yards  in  five  seconds 
—  on  the  smoothness  of  a  cinder  path. 

Up  hill  in  a  constant  spit  of  fire  and  lead  it  requires 
a  little  longer. 

There  were  only  two  assailants  left  now  and  one  of 
them  suddenly  veered  and  made  for  the  cover  of  a 
hickory  trunk  off  to  one  side  —  he  was  in  full  flight. 
But  the  other  came  on,  throwing  the  rifle  away  and 
shifting  his  heavy  magazine  pistol  to  his  right  hand. 

It  was  easy  now,  thought  the  girl  —  she  could  take 
her  time  and  be  very  sure. 

Yet  she  shot  and  missed,  and  the  man  came  on  with 
the  confidence  of  one  who  wears  a  talisman  and  fears 
no  harm.  Now  he  was  almost  at  the  steps  and  his 
pistol  was  barking  viciously  —  then  suddenly  something 
in  the  mechanism  of  Juanita's  rifle  jammed  and  it  lay 
useless  and  dead  in  her  hands.  She  struggled  with  it, 
frantically  jerking  the  lever,  but  before  she  had  con- 
quered its  balking  obstinacy  she  saw  the  on-coming  figure 
leap  up  the  steps  at  one  stride  and  thrust  his  weapon 
forward  over  the  table.  She  even  caught  the  glitter 
of  his  teeth  as  a  snarling  smile  parted  his  lips. 

Then  a  rifle  spoke  behind  her,  a  rifle  in  the  hands  of 
the  man  who  had  dragged  himself  to  the  firing  line,  and 
with  his  foot  on  the  threshold  Jim  Fletcher  reeled  back- 
ward and  rolled  lumberingly  down  the  steps  to  the 
ground. 

"  You  got  him ! "  she  screamed,  "  you  got  him, 
Anse!" 

It  had  been  perhaps  five  minutes  since  she  had  called 
out  to  the  men  in  the  road,  but  it  seemed  that  she  had 
sustained  a  long  siege.  She  saw  the  one  man  who  had 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  351 

fled,  crossing  the  fence  and  disappearing.  Then  very 
slowly  she  rose  and  turned  to  the  room  again. 

Anse  Havey  was  lying  on  his  face  and  the  gun  with 
which  he  had  killed  Jim  Fletcher  lay  by  his  side,  but 
his  posture  was  so  rigid  and  his  limbs  so  motionless 
that  the  girl  caught  at  her  breast  and  reeled  backward. 
She  would  have  fallen  had  she  not  been  supported  by 
the  table.  Had  the  fight  been  lost  after  all? 

Slowly  and  in  a  daze  of  reaction  and  fright,  she  moved 
forward  and  turned  his  body  over,  and  laid  her  ear  to 
his  heart. 

It  was  still  beating.  The  rifle  had  only  jolted  his 
weak  and  pain-racked  body  into  unconsciousness,  and 
as  she  held  his  head  to  her  breast,  her  eyes  went  roving 
about  the  room  into  which  the  pallid  dawn  had  begun 
stealing.  Then,  hanging  by  the  mantel,  she  saw  the 
horn  that  Jerry  Everson  had  given  her,  faintly  catch- 
ing and  reflecting  the  first  of  the  light. 

Why  had  she  not  thought  of  that  before?  she  asked 
herself  accusingly.  Why  had  she  not  sent  its  call  for 
help  out  across  the  hills  long  ago?  Then  there  came 
back  to  her  memory  the  words  of  the  mountain  donor 
when  he  had  brought  it  over  and  had  imitated  the 
Havey  battle  call. 

"  Don't  never  blow  them  three  longs  an'  three  shorts 
unlessen  ye  wants  ter  start  hell.  When  thet  call  goes 
out  acrost  the  mountains  every  Havey  thet  kin  tote  a 
gun's  got  ter  git  up  an'  come." 

If  ever  there  had  been  a  time  when  every  Havey  should 
come  it  was  this  time.  She  laid  Anse's  head  once  more 
on  the  cushions  and  went  to  the  mantel.  Then  stand- 
ing in  the  door,  she  drew  a  long  breath. 


352  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

The  ridges  were  vague  apparitions  now  along  whose 
slopes  trailed  shreds  of  mist.  A  gray  world  of  ghost- 
like dawn  spread  out  with  shapes  that  lost  themselves 
in  shapelessness  and  a  chill  hung  in  the  air. 

So  she  set  the  horn  to  her  lips  and  blew.  Out  across 
the  melting  vagueness  of  the  dim  world  floated  the  three 
long  blasts  and  the  three  short  blasts.  She  waited  a 
little  while  and  blew  again.  That  signal  could  not  reach 
Anse  Havey's  own  house,  because  the  ridge  would  send 
it  echoing  back  in  a  shattered  wave  of  sound.  It  would 
be  better  heard  to  the  east,  and  after  a  time  there  cam* 
back  to  her  waiting  ears,  very  low  and  distant,  yet  very 
clear,  an  answer. 

It  came  from  the  house  of  Milt  McBriar  and  Jua- 
nita's  heart,  torn  and  anxious  as  it  was,  leaped,  for  she 
knew  that  for  the  first  time  in  the  memory  of  man  the 
Havey  call  to  arms  had  been  heard  and  was  being  an- 
swered by  a  chief  of  the  McBriars,  and  that  as  fast 
as  horses  could  carry  them  he  and  his  men  would  bring 
succor. 

An  hour  later,  when  the  mountain  slopes  were  unveil- 
ing in  miracles  of  iridescence  and  tender  color,  Young 
Milt  McBriar  and  his  escort  came  upon  them. 

The  girl  was  weeping  incoherently  over  an  insen- 
sible figure  and  crooning  to  him  as  a  mother  sings  to 
quiet  a  fretful  child,  and  on  the  floor  at  her  side  lay  a 
piece  of  paper  rumpled  and  reddened  with  blood  —  a 
marriage  license. 

"  Milt,"  she  wildly  cried  out,  "  get  Brother  Anse, 
get  him  quick ! "  And  she  waved  the  piece  of  smeared 
paper  in  the  boy's  face. 

Kneeling  with  her  on  the  floor,  Milt  took  the  license 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  353 

from  her  hand  and  when  he  saw  what  it  was  he  very 
dubiously  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  he  told  her  gravely,  "  I'm  afraid  hit's 
too  late,  ma'am.  He  kain't  hardly  live  thet  long." 

"  Get  Brother  Anse,"  she  insisted  fiercely ;  "  get  him 
quick.  I'm  going  to  be  his  wife."  Her  voice  broke  into 
a  wild  sob  as  she  added,  "  If  I  can't  be  anything  else, 
I'm  going  to  be  the  Widow  Havey." 

And  when  Good  Anse  came,  he  found  Bad  Anse  still 
alive,  smiling  faintly  up  into  the  face  of  the  woman  who 
sat  with  his  head  in  her  lap,  and  they  were  both  wait- 
ing. 

"  I'm  right  sorry,"  said  the  missionary  simply  when 
the  words  were  spoken,  "  thet  ye  didn't  hev  a  preacher 
thet  could  'a'  married  ye  with  due  ceremonies,  but  I 
reckon  I  hain't  never  been  gladder  ter  do  nothin'  in  my 
life  —  ef  only  he  kin  git  well." 

"  Brother  Anse,"  Juanita  Havey  told  him,  as  she  put 
a  hand  on  each  rough  shoulder,  "  I  had  rather  it  had 
been  you  than  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury." 

People  in  the  mountains  still  talk  of  how,  while  Anse 
Havey  lay  on  a  white  cot  in  the  little  hospital,  young 
Milt  McBriar  set  out  toward  Peril.  He  stopped  for 
a  moment  at  the  house  of  Bad  Anse  Havey  and  within 
twenty  minutes  the  hills  were  being  raked.  Young  Milt 
killed  a  horse  getting  to  Jeb  McNash's  cabin  on  Tribu- 
lation and  Jeb  killed  another  getting  to  Peril.  Then 
from  Lexington  came  two  surgeons  as  fast  as  a  special 
train  could  bring  them,  and  thanks  to  a  dogged  life 
spark  they  found  Anse  Havey  still  lingering  on  the 
margin  of  life. 


554  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

When  they  removed  him  from  the  operating  table 
back  to  his  cot,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  in  consciousness, 
the  sun  was  coming  through  the  shaded  window,  but 
even  before  he  realized  that,  he  saw  her  face  bending 
over  him,  and  felt  cool  fingers  on  his  forehead. 

As  his  eyes  opened  her  smile  greeted  him,  and  she 
brushed  his  lips  with  her  own.  Then  in  a  tone  of  com- 
mand she  said,  "  You  mustn't  talk.  The  doctors  say 
you  may  get  well,  if  you  obey  orders  and  fight  hard. 
It's  partly  up  to  you,  Anse." 

Once  more  there  hovered  around  the  man's  lips  their 
occasional  boyish  smile. 

"  I  reckon,"  he  said  slowly,  "  they'll  have  the  hell  of 
a  time  killin'  me  now!  "  Then  he  added  in  a  tone  of 
more  grimness,  "  Besides,  there's  a  score  or  two  to  set- 
tle." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  Her  fingers 
rested  caressingly  on  the  dark  hair  that  fell  over  his 
forehead. 

"  No,  Anse,"  she  told  him.  "  I  settled  most  of  them 
myself." 

»••••••• 

Even  the  detachment  of  the  murder  squad  that  had 
played  its  part  in  the  woods  and  started  for  Peril  be- 
fore the  five  turned  back,  did  not  reach  the  town,  but 
scattered  into  the  hillsides.  When  morning  brought 
the  news  of  their  attempt  they  tried  to  make  their 
escape  across  the  mountains  to  Virginia. 

But  there  was  a  grim  and  relentless  system  about  the 
movement  of  two  posses  that  set  out  to  comb  the  timber. 
Daring  approach  no  house  for  food,  the  fugitives  took 
up  their  stand  at  last  in  a  stanch  log  cabin  which  had 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  355 

been  deserted  and  died  there,  grimly  declining  to  sur- 
render. 

Of  course  the  railroad  came  up  Tribulation  and 
crossed  through  the  notch  in  the  mountains  at  the  gap, 
but  the  railroad  came  on  terms  quite  different  from 
those  which  Mr.  Trevor  and  his  ilk  had  planned. 

One  day  there  rode  away  from  Holland  College  a 
gay  little  procession,  on  its  way  to  the  house  of  Milt 
McBriar.  At  its  head  rode  young  Milt  himself  and  on 
a  pillion  behind  him,  as  mountain  brides  have  always 
ridden  to  their  own  houses,  was  Dawn  McBriar. 

That  was  some  years  ago  and  at  the  big  log  house 
there  is  a  toddling,  tow-headed  young  person  now  whose 
name  is  Anse  Havey  McBriar,  though  his  father  insists 
he  is  to  be  ultimately  known  as  "  Bad  Anse  "  McBriar. 
So  far  the  name  has  not  been  given  general  recognition, 
though  his  mother  affectionately  calls  him  "  Badness." 

One  autumn  day  when  the  air  was  as  full  of  sparkle 
as  champagne  and  the  big  "  sugar  tree  "  just  outside 
the  hospital  window  was  flaming  in  an  ecstasy  of  color, 
when  even  the  geese  by  the  creek  waddled  with  the  fat 
comfort  of  burghers  at  a  festival,  Miss  Dawn  Havey 
opened  her  eyes  on  the  world  and  found  it  acceptable. 

Jeb  McNash  was  riding  through  the  country  that 
October,  seeking  election  to  the  Legislature. 

He  drew  his  horse  down  by  the  fence  and  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  little  building  up  the  hillside  where  the  mys- 
tery of  a  new  life  was  sheltered.  Then  a  slow  grin 
came  to  his  lips. 

"  Anse,"  he  said  in  his  slow  drawl,  "  it's  right  smart 
of  a  pity  she's  a  gal  now,  hain't  it?  " 

Anse  shook  his  head.     "  I  reckon,"  he  said,  "  she's 


$56  THE  BATTLE  CRY 

got  more  chance  to  be  like  her  mother.  Her  mother 
made  these  hills  better  for  being  here  and  besides  — " 

He  looked  cautiously  about  and  dropped  his  voice  as 
if  speaking  of  a  forbidden  subject,  yet  into  it  crept  an 
unconcealable  pride: 

"  Besides,  young  feller,  have  you  got  any  more 
Botches  on  the  stock  of  your  gun  than  she  has  ?  " 


